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Photogravure  from  the  original  painting  in  the  Louvre  at  Parts 

MICHEL  EYQUEM  DE  MONTAIGNE  (born  February  28, 
1533,  died  September,  1592)  excels  all  othtr  essayists  in  tli« 
extent  of  his  influence.  He  may  be  said  to  have  established 
for  all  Europe  the  standard  of  style  for  discursive  literatnre.  In 
an  age  of  bigotry  he  dared  to  be  absolutely  independent  of  all  sys- 
tems of  thought  and  belief,  escaping  the  censure  of  his  tim'e  by  the 
wise  repression  of  any  set  creed  of  his  own.  Emerson  says  of  him: 
"There  hav«  been  men  of  deeper  insight,  but  never  a  man  \yith 
such   an   abundance   of  thought." 


OE  S  SAYS 

OF 

FRENCH,    GERMAN    AND    ITALIAN 
ESSAYISTS 

INCLUDING     BIOGRAPHICAL    AND    CRITICAL    SKETCHES 


WITH  A  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION   BY 

CHAUNCEY  C.  STARKWEATHER,  A.B.,  LL.B. 


REVISED    EDITION 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
THE    CO-OPERATIVE    PUBLICATION    SOCIETY 


Copyright,  iqoo 
By  the  colonial  PRESS 


_  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

i- 

j  T^  HE  spirit  of  the  French  race  and  language  lends  itself 
->.  I  naturally  to  the  essay.  Ever  appreciative  of  style  and 
^  form,  ever  alert  with  raillery  and  badinage,  ever  keen 

with  critical  acumen,  there  is  no  people  with  whom  the  essay 
^     should  rather  flourish.     In  fact,  whatever  kind  of  prose  com- 
"^    position  the  Frenchman  may  try,  it  may  be  said  that  he  cannot 
keep  from  essay-writing.     Into  the  novel,  the  treatise,  the  his- 
tory, the  essay  is  interjected.     The  Frenchman  lives  in  an  art 
atmosphere;  if  he  be  not  an  artist  he  must  perforce  be  a  critic. 
Oftentimes  he  is  both,  for  it  is  not  disputed  that  one  may  be  an 
artist  in  criticism.     The  plastic  sense,  the  poetry  of  color  and 
tone,  is  in  the  very  air  the  Frenchman  breathes  from  birth.     If 
not  creative,  he  must  be  appreciative.     And  does  not  the  whole 
nation  pride  itself  on  its  logic?     If  not  logical,  the  Frenchman 
is  nothing.     And  this  sense  of  close  and  accurate  argument  and 
^inevitable  inference  is  the  basic  quality  of  his  caustic  irony,  his 
withering  sarcasm,  his  matchless  innuendo,  his  smiling  but  inex- 
orable re'diictio  ad  ahsurdum.    It  is  quite  natural,  then,  that  the 
father  of  the  modern  essay  should  have  been  a  Frenchman.     To 
speak  of  the  great  Montaigne  with  any  degree  of  adequacy  a 
\J   volume  would  be  required.     We  can  only  note  a  few  of  his 
r^Lcharacteristics,  and  briefly  hint  at  his  influence  on  the  world  of 
letters.     The  unity  of  his  desultoriness  lies  in  the  spirit  and 

Y treatment,  and,  again,  in  that  he  is  always  concerned  in  the  por- 
trayal or  discussion  of  the  nature  of  man.     He  will  always  re- 
main popular  because  he  is  so  human.     Theoretically  a  radical, 
he  was  satisfied  to  let  things  rest  pretty  much  as  they  were.     He 
y^did  not  preach  a  great  reform,  but  inculcated  a  cheerful  and 
'  y^  grateful  resignation  to  the  asperites  of  life  and  the  irresistible- 
lr\:s,ness  of  death.     He  taught  the  dignity  of  good-sense.     In  his 
grand  confessional  the  loquacious  egotist  talks  about  himself, 
«>/  >.,>Hk. .  ^  A— Vol.  60 


^ 


ir  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

and  the  world  has  not  yet  tired  of  listening.  What  a  revelation 
was  his  good-natured  gossip,  what  a  charm  of  carefully  con- 
cealed art,  lightly  facile,  playful,  amiable,  learned  and  well-bred. 
"  What  do  I  know  ?  "  was  his  motto.  Posterity  has  answered : 
You  knew  how  to  be  interesting.  For  that  we  have  made  you 
immortal. 

To  the  writers  of  the  French  language  his  value  is  incalcu- 
lable. In  the  history  of  the  development  of  style  his  works  are 
of  the  highest  importance,  ranging,  with  complete  mastery,  from 
the  quizzically  trivial  to  the  height  of  sustained  eloquence.  He 
is  easily  at  the  head  of  all  the  French  writers  of  his  century. 

When  enjoying  his  "  great  picture  gallery  "  we  may  exclaim 
with  Madame  de  Sevigne :  "  Oh,  what  an  amiable  man  !  What 
good  company  he  is !  He  is  my  old  friend,  but  he  is  always 
new." 

While  we  may  well  have  an  affection  for  Montaigne  we  can 
have  only  an  admiration  for  Voltaire.  Harsh  have  been  the 
epithets  applied  to  him  by  his  own  countrymen.  One  French 
critic  has  called  him  an  "  ape  of  genius,  sent  as  the  devil's  mis- 
sionary to  man,"  Another,  with  equal  politeness,  describes  him 
as  "  a  unique  man  to  whom  hell  has  given  all  its  powers."  In 
him  we  miss  the  sweet  serenity  of  Montaigne,  and  the  genial 
amiability  of  character  and  tone.  Voltaire  was  a  "  lord  of 
irony,"  bitter  and  caustic.  His  imprisonment  in  the  Bastille 
and  his  exile  did  not  sweeten  his  temper,  nor  did  the  burning  of 
some  of  his  books  by  the  public  executioner.  And  yet  he  was 
the  most  complete  representative  of  the  French  mind  of  his  time. 
His  scope  was  universal — a  model  of  simplicity  in  his  letters, 
and  just  as  a  literary  critic,  indefatigable  in  every  field,  and  the 
acknowledged  leader  of  public  opinion.  His  activity  was  cease- 
less. He  was  orthodox,  he  even  built  a  church,  but  was  an  en- 
emy of  intolerance.  He  believed  in  God,  but  fought  against 
certain  abuses  of  the  Church.  In  affairs  of  the  State,  and  also 
as  a  literary  critic,  Voltaire  was  a  conservative.  His  mind  was 
a  microcosm  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

To  French  literature  Rousseau  brought  a  love  of  nature  and  a 
hatred  of  society.  Quarrelling  with  all  his  friends,  he  quar- 
relled with  society  too.  He  led  the  great  revolt  of  the  individ- 
ual. He  was  the  "  emancipator  of  the  ego."  As  an  attorney 
for  the  individual  he  framed  an  indictment  of  civilization.     He 


SPECIAL   INTRODUCTION  V 

was  the  great  idealist,  brooding  and  dreaming  over  the  wrongs 
of  the  people.  The  Revolutionists  were  his  disciples.  The 
skins  of  those  who  ridiculed  his  works  "  went  to  bind  the  sec- 
ond edition."  His  hope  was  to  regenerate  humanity;  he  was 
the  seer  and  prophet  of  popular  emancipation.  His  "  Emile  " 
overturned  the  educational  ideas  of  France.  Education  be- 
came less  artificial  and  more  natural.  He  preached  the  gospel 
of  reform.  Voltaire  sneered  at  him,  but  the  Revolution  obeyed 
him,  going  too  far  in  its  frenzied  zeal.  But  the  resultant  of 
modern  reform  was  suggested  by  Rousseau,  and  his  soul  "  goes 
marching  on." 

In  the  one  hundred  works  of  fiction  written  by  Honore  de 
Balzac  he  showed  himself  to  be  the  Shakespeare  of  the  French 
novelists.  Humanity  is  his  topic,  and  he  is  an  "  anatomist  of 
passion,"  looking  upon  life  as  a  gigantic  comedy.  From  the 
darkness  of  his  novels  come  refulgent  lessons  of  virtue.  His 
satire  was  somewhat  heavy,  as  he  took  himself  too  seriously  to 
rely  upon  the  lighter  graces  of  wit  and  sprightliness.  The  two 
thousand  personages  in  his  works  portray  the  conflict  of  classes 
between  the  old  and  the  new  regimes. 

Victor  Hugo's  work  illumines  half  a  century.  He  was  the 
leader  of  the  Romantic  school,  a  writer  of  limitless  imagination 
and  great  will  power.  Were  this  the  place  in  which  to  speak  of 
his  verse  we  might  demonstrate  that  he  was  the  greatest  lyrical 
poet  of  France.  His  great  novels  were  prose  epics.  Into  these 
he  introduced  chapters  which  were  really  essays  on  a  variety  of 
subjects.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  "  Conservateur 
Litteraire."  How  interesting  must  have  been  those  literary 
"  reunions  "  at  which  he  met  De  Vigny,  Sainte-Beuve,  the  two 
Deschamps,  De  Musset,  and  Dumas,  where  the  new  ideas  of 
the  leader  were  promulgated. 

Sainte-Beuve  was  the  first  scientific  and  universal  critic. 
Year  after  year,  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Constitutionnel  "  and  the 
"  Moniteur,"  he  continued  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  whole 
literary  world.  His  theories  of  criticism  were  broad  and  sound, 
founded  on  a  wide  study  of  literature,  taking  account  of  the 
object  which  the  author  had  in  mind,  and  studying  the  writer 
both  personally  and  in  relation  with  his  other  works.  His  taste 
was  well-nigh  flawless. 

The  German  mind  has  always  loved  cloudland.     It  has  loved 


Vi  SPECIAL   INTRODUCTION 

to  soar  in  the  lofty  realms  of  philosophical  and  psychological 
speculation.  Philosophers  with  "  theories  of  vigor  and  rigor  " 
have  risen  and  flourished.  Accurate  scholarship  and  wide  re- 
search have  marked  German  thinkers  and  teachers.  In  poetry 
Goethe  and  Schiller  attained  the  highest  rank  of  creative  genius, 
and  Germany  has  never  lacked  songsters.  Her  novelists  have 
had  a  vast  influence.  In  science  and  medicine  she  is  well  at  the 
fore.  It  has  been  said  that  the  form  of  the  essay  was  not  con- 
genial to  German  thought,  that  in  German  hands  the  essay 
turned  out  to  be  a  treatise,  rock-ribbed  with  scholarship  and 
heavy  with  pedagogic  didacticism.  But  while  we  may  miss 
some  of  the  more  engaging  characteristics  of  the  English  essay, 
in  its  best  examples,  we  find  in  the  German  a  compensating 
depth  of  feeling  and  sympathetic  human  interest  and  sincerity. 
Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  some  of  the  traits  of  the  essayists 
whom  we  here  introduce.  As  the  Thirty  Years'  War  had  re- 
tarded the  growth  of  culture  for  more  than  a  century,  so  the 
Seven  Years'  War  gave  the  German  literature  ideas  of  unity  and 
nationalization. 

Western  Europe  was  far  ahead  when  Lessing  and  Wieland 
stepped  into  the  breach.  After  Luther,  Lessing  was  Germany's 
first  great  individuality.  He  taught  Germany  that  she  might 
have  a  literature  of  her  own  apart  from  slavish  imitation  and  all- 
pervading  foreign  influence.  He  helped  to  create  the  golden 
age  of  German  literature.  What  great  names  are  those  of  three 
generations  of  German  culture  which  must  be  bracketed  with 
his!  And  by  them  all  was  Lessing's  influence  felt.  From  Anac- 
reontics and  war-songs  and  prose  fables  Lessing  turned  to  criti- 
cism, amusing  and  instructing  Berlin  by  conversational  and 
witty  attacks  on  the  bad  taste  then  prevalent.  He  redeemed  the 
drama  by  a  play  constructed  according  to  his  new  theories  of  the 
stage.  In  his  famous  Laocoon,  opposing  Winckelmann,  he 
taught  the  proper  limitation  of  the  several  arts  of  poetry,  paint- 
ing and  sculpture.  His  dramatic  criticisms,  continued  during 
two  years  at  Hamburg,  were  of  great  value.  He  deemed  the 
drama  the  highest  form  of  poetry,  attacking  the  false  methods  of 
the  French  school  of  tragedy  and  praising  Sophocles  and 
Shakespeare.  He  broke  the  bonds  of  the  pseudo-classical.  Al- 
though brilliant,  caustic  and  destructive,  he  was  also  positive  and 
constructive.     If  he  attacked  false  theories  he  supplied  new  and 


SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION  vii 

true  ones,  in  their  place.     He  was  a  revolutionary  force  in  art 
and  criticism. 

Wieland  did  not  reject  the  airs  and  graces  of  the  French 
school,  but  proved  that  they  could  be  quite  at  home  in  good 
German.  Intent  upon  amusing,  he  sought  to  attract  by  urban- 
ity and  a  happy  and  polished  style.  He  displayed  a  remarkable 
versatility.  One  field  was  not  enough  for  him;  he  cultivated 
many.  And  in  them  all  he  reaped  a  smiling  harvest  From 
grave  to  gay  and  back  again  he  wandered,  expounding,  review- 
ing, creating.  Although  coquetting  with  the  French  influence 
in  letters,  he  was  mindful  of  the  English  too.  His  translation  of 
Shakespeare  gave  great  impetus  to  the  growth  of  the  purer  and 
simpler  English  tendencies.  As  a  critic  Wieland  was  virtually 
a  dictator  and  his  opinion  had  all  the  weight  of  a  decree.  The 
matchless  "  Oberon  "  won  all  hearts,  and  by  this  epic  he  estab- 
lished his  supremacy  forever.  In  his  forty-two  volumes  one 
may  cull  the  flowers  of  rhetoric,  one  may  learn  of  the  evolution 
of  true  criticism  and  may  gain  visions  of  the  mountain-tops 
of  art. 

Herder  taught  the  unity  of  all  mankind.  He  set  forth  in  per- 
suading argument  the  correlation  of  human  forces,  and  the 
organic  growth  in  literature,  science  and  art.  He  emphasized 
the  value  of  popular  song  and  the  worth  of  the  poet  as  reflecting 
the  life  of  humanity.  He  followed  at  first  in  the  revolutionary 
path  of  the  great  Rousseau.  He  sang  and  preached  the  brother- 
hood of  a  man.  He  not  only  influenced  to  a  great  degree  his 
famous  contemporaries,  but  also  he  has  left  his  impress  on  the 
literature  and  thought  of  succeeding  generations. 

Herder  had  two  pupils,  Goethe  and  Schiller.  These  names 
are  household  words.  Prolific  as  each  of  these  immortals  was, 
more  has  been  written  about  them  than  they  ever  wrote  about 
anything.  Wiseacres  have  "  peeped  and  botanized,"  pedants 
have  oracularly  analyzed,  critics  have  viewed  and  reviewed.  It 
is  as  if  one  should  try  to  put  the  Andes  or  the  Himalayas  under 
a  microscope,  as  if  one  should  try  to  catch  the  roar  of  Niagara 
in  a  phonograph.  Goethe  and  Schiller:  they  stand  side  by  side, 
great  beacon-lights  of  German  poesy.  And  not  German  poesy 
alone.  They  are  Titans  of  world-genius,  crowned  kings  of  uni- 
versal literature,  known  to  every  schoolboy  and  poet  and  philos- 
opher of  two  continents.     Safe  in  the  heart  of  humanity,  the 


viii  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

ages  will  be  their  heirs.  They  are  on  the  heights  with  Homer 
and  Sophocles,  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  "  like  gods  together," 
treasured  by  mankind. 

Richter  was  an  idyllic  sentimentalist  in  sixty-five  volumes! 
He  was  enlivened  with  satirical  humor  and  had  great  warmth  of 
heart,  paving  the  way  in  his  writing  for  the  Romantic  school. 

August  Wilhelm  vonSchlegel  was  remarkable  for  his  studies 
in  foreign  Hterature,  for  his  translation  of  Shakespeare,  and  for 
his  eminence  as  a  critic.  He  appreciated  the  value  and  advo- 
cated the  spread  of  the  Greek  and  English  influence  in  letters. 

The  great  pessimist  Arthur  Schopenhauer  was  the  exponent 
of  a  gloomy  Buddhism.  His  sombre  philosophy  reacted  upon 
his  own  Hfe  and  was  a  part  of  it.  How  lonely  and  dismal  he 
became! — viewing  everybody  with  suspicion,  the  very  embodi- 
ment and  apostle  of  discouragement  and  despair. 

The  laughing,  suffering,  jeering,  amiable,  witty,  caustic  Heine 
is  always  a  captivating  study.  Fond  of  travel,  yet  condemned 
to  years  upon  a  mattress  grave,  his  mind  was  ever  alert.  If  you 
are  a  German  you  will  find  German  humor  in  his  works;  if  a 
Frenchman,  you  will  discover  the  flashes  of  French  wit.  How- 
ever local  his  reference  may  be  he  is  at  the  same  time  universal, 
a  true  cosmopolitan,  a  citizen  of  the  world.  It  is  this  spirit  of 
genuineness  and  universality  about  him  which  makes  him  ap- 
preciated in  translations,  always  fatal  to  the  mediocre  and  the 
banal.  His  haunting  lyrics  linger  in  the  memory  and  are  popu- 
lar wherever  German  song  is  known. 


y^m,CLMA.^>^JLSLU  ^.  yC'tali 


O^^i^^^dkxxajiix^ 


CONTENTS 

rACB 

Michel  Eyquem  de  Montaigne „ o . .  i 

Of  Cruelty 3 

Of  Repentance , 19 

Of  the  Inconvenience  of  Greatness , 35 

Of  Managing  the  Will 41 

VoLTAiRK  (Francois-Marie  Arouet) 65 

Of  Ceremonies 67 

On  Cromwell 69 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau 75 

The  People , 17  ^ 

GOTTHOLD   EPHRAIM    LESSING 85 

Aristotle  and  Tragedy 87 

Christopher  Martin  Wieland 1 19 

Philosophy  Considered  as  the  Art  of  Life  and  Healing  Art  of 
the  Soul 121 

JOHANN   KASPAR   LAVATER I27 

On  the  Nature  of  Man 129^ 

Of  the  Truth  of  Physiognomy 135 

JOH ANN  Gottfried  von  Herder , 143 

Tithon  and  Aurora , 145 

JOH ANN  Wolfgang  von  Goethe 161 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield 163 

Friedrich  von  Schiller 185 

Upon  Naive  and  Sentimental  Poetry , » 1 87 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter 211 

On  Consolation 213 

Arthur  Schopenhauer 217 

On  Authorship  and  Style 219 

Gi ACOMO  Leopardi 239 

The  Academy  of  Syllographs 241 

Honors  de  Balzac 245 

About  Catherine  De  Medici 247 

Heinrich  Heine 281 

Don  Quixote 283 

\x 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Victor  Hugo 303 

Funeral  of  Napoleon 305 

Charles  Augustin  Sainte-Beuve  . , 327 

Alfred  de  Musset 329 

Rabelais 341 

Balzac 355 

Montaigne 371 

Giuseppe  M azzini 387 

Byron  and  Goethe 389 

Joseph  Ernest  Renan , 409 

The  Poetry  of  the  Celtic  Races 411 

Camille  Flammarion 457 

The  Plurality  of  Inhabited  Worlds 459 


OF    CRUELTY 

OF     REPENTANCE 

OF    THE    INCONVENIENCE    OF 
GREATNESS 

OF    MANAGING    THE    WILL 


BY 


MICHEL    EYQUEM    DE    MONTAIGNE 


MICHEL   EYQUEM    DE   MONTAIGNE 
1533— 1592 

Miohel  Eyquem  de  Montaigne  was  born  at  his  paternal  home  of 
Montaigne,  in  Perigord,  France,  in  1533.  His  father,  a  somewhat 
eccentric  nobleman,  had  his  son  instructed  in  Latin  as  the  language 
of  his  every-day  life  and  conversation,  and  it  was  no  doubt  partly 
owing  to  this  circumstance  that  he  subsequently  developed  that  rare 
taste  for  the  Latin  poets  and  deep  appreciation  of  Latin  thought  and 
culture  which  mark  his  essays,  and  which  led  Sainte-Beuve  to  call 
him  the  French  Horace.  Educated  at  the  College  de  Guienne,  at 
Bordeaux,  under  some  of  the  most  famous  scholars  of  his  time,  and 
trained  in  the  study  of  the  law,  Montaigne's  youth  and  early  manhood 
were  passed  in  the  court,  the  camp,  and  the  council  chamber,  in  a 
life  of  pleasure  and  adventure  similar  to  that  of  most  young  noblemen 
of  his  day.  It  was  during  this  period  that  Montaigne  acquired  that 
wide  experience  with  life  and  deep  insight  into  human  nature  that 
give  to  his  essays  much  of  their  enduring  value  and  charm. 

In  1571,  when  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  Montaigne  abruptly  quitted 
these  scenes  and  retired  to  his  estates,  devoting  the  remainder  of  his 
lift  to  study  and  literature.  The  death  of  his  friend,  Etienne  de  la 
Boetie,  an  ardent  young  nobleman  of  his  own  age  and  similar  tastes, 
to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached,  was  one  of  the  leading  reasons 
for  this  retirement,  and  his  first  care  was  to  edit  the  works  of  his 
deceased  friend.  In  the  midst  of  the  terrible  scenes  that  followed  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  Montaigne  lived  quietly  at  home  in 
his  chateau,  having,  as  he  himself  said,  "  no  other  guard  or  sentinel 
than  the  stars."  In  1580  he  published  the  first  two  books  of  his  "Es- 
says." From  1581  to  1585  Montaigne  held  the  important  position  of 
mayor  of  Bordeaux,  and  during  this  period  he  frequently  acted  as 
mediator  between  the  contending  factions.  In  1588  a  fifth  edition  of 
the  "  Essays  "  was  published,  to  which  Montaigne  added  a  third  book 
containing  a  smaller  number  of  essays  than  the  two  earlier  books,  but 
of  a  higher  order  and  displaying  greater  care.  His  essays  entitled 
"  Of  Repentance,"  "  Of  Managing  the  Will,"  "  Of  the  Inconvenience 
of  Greatness,"  first  appeared  in  that  volume.  His  death  occurred  in 
1592. 

Montaigne's  style  reflects  the  Gascon  origin  of  the  man.  It  is 
fresh,  racy,  discursive,  at  times  garrulous,  but  withal  simple,  direct, 
•>ianly,  genuine.  Egotistic  to  a  degree  paralleled  by  no  other  writer 
^  literature,  Montaigne's  essays  give  us  the  man  himself.  When  the 
King  of  France  met  Montaigne  after  the  publication  of  the  first  two 
bofiks  he  told  the  author  that  he  liked  his  essays.  "  Then,  sire,"  he 
replied,  "you  will  like  me;  I  am  my  essays."  Though  Montaigne's 
style  was  influential  in  the  development  of  French  prose,  it  was  his 
method  and  manner  of  thinking  that  constitute  his  chief  contribution 
to  literature.  Prior  to  Montaigne  the  essay  had  no  recognized  place 
in  literature,  and  to  him  more  than  any  other  writer  must  be  given 
the  credit  of  creating  this  most  charming,  useful  form  of  literary  ex- 
pression. Few  writers  liave  enjoyed  a  greater  or  more  distinguished 
following  than  Montaigne.  Emerson  said  :  "  This  book  of  Montaigne 
the  world  has  endorsed  by  translating  it  into  all  tongues,  and  printing 
seventy-five  editions  of  it  in  Europe;  and  that,  too,  a  circulation  some- 
what chosen,  namely  among  courtiers,  soldiers,  princes,  men  of  the 
world,  and  men  of  wit  and  generosity." 


OF    CRUELTY 

I  FANCY  virtue  to  be  something  else,  and  something 
more  noble,  than  good  nature,  and  the  mere  propen- 
sion  to  goodness,  that  we  are  born  into  the  world 
withal.  Well-disposed  and  well-descended  souls  pursue,  in- 
deed, the  same  methods,  and  represent  in  their  actions  the 
same  face  that  virtue  itself  does :  but  the  word  virtue  imports 
something  more  great  and  active  than  merely  for  a  man  to 
suffer  himself  by  a  happy  disposition,  to  be  gently  and  quietly 
drawn  to  the  rule  of  reason.  He  who,  by  a  natural  sweetness 
and  facility,  should  despise  injuries  received,  would,  doubtless, 
do  a  very  fine  and  laudable  thing;  but  he  who,  provoked  and 
nettled  to  the  quick  by  an  offence,  should  fortify  himself  with 
the  arms  of  reason  against  the  furious  appetite  of  revenge,  and, 
after  a  great  conflict,  master  his  own  passion,  would  certainly 
do  a  great  deal  more.  The  first  would  do  well ;  the  latter  vir- 
tuously: one  action  might  be  called  goodness,  and  the  other 
virtue ;  for,  methinks,  the  very  name  of  virtue  presupposes  dif- 
ficulty and  contention,  and  cannot  be  exercised  without  an 
opponent.  'Tis  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  that  we  call  God 
good,  mighty,  liberal,  and  just ;  but  we  do  not  call  him  virtu- 
ous, being  that  all  His  operations  are  natural  and  without 
endeavor.^  It  has  been  the  opinion  of  many  philosophers,  not 
only  Stoics,  but  Epicureans — (and  this  addition  I  borrow  from 
the  vulgar  opinion,  which  is  false,  notwithstanding  the  witty 
conceit  of  Arcesilaus  in  answer  to  one,  who,  being  reproached 
that  many  scholars  went  from  his  school  to  the  Epicurean,  but 
never  any  from  thence  to  his  school,  said  in  answer,  "  I  believe 
it  indeed ;  numbers  of  capons  being  made  out  of  cocks,  but 
never  any  cocks  out  of  capons."  *  For,  in  truth,  the  Epicu- 
rean sect  is  not  at  all  inferior  to  the  Stoic  in  steadiness,  and  the 

•Rousseau,  in  his  "  Emile,"  book  v.,  *  Diogenes  Laertius,  "Life  of  ArCMl' 

adopts  this  passage,  almost  in  the  same       laus,"  fib.  iv.  S  43- 
words. 


4  MONTAIGNE 

rigor  of  opinions  and  precepts.  And  a  certain  Stoic,  showing 
more  honesty  than  those  disputants,  who,  in  order  to  quarrel 
with  Epicurus,  and  to  throw  the  game  into  their  hands,  make 
him  say  what  he  never  thought,  putting  a  wrong  construction 
upon  his  words,  clothing  his  sentences,  by  the  strict  rules  of 
grammar,  with  another  meaning,  and  a  different  opinion  from 
that  which  they  knew  he  entertained  in  his  mind,  and  in  his 
morals,  the  Stoic,  I  say,  declared  that  he  abandoned  the  Epi- 
curean sect,  upon  this,  among  other  considerations,  that  he 
thought  their  road  too  lofty  and  inaccessible ;  Et  ii  qui  ^CKq- 
hovot  vocajitur  sunt  ^CKokoKoi  et  <f)t\oS{Kai,oi  ontnesque  vir- 
tiites  et  colunt  et  retincnt "  ^) — these  philosophers  say  that  it 
is  not  enough  to  have  the  soul  seated  in  a  good  place,  of  a  good 
temper,  and  well  disposed  to  virtue ;  it  is  not  enough  to  have 
our  resolutions  and  our  reasoning  fixed  above  all  the  power 
of  fortune,  but  that  we  are,  moreover,  to  seek  occasions  where- 
in to  put  them  to  the  proof:  they  would  seek  pain,  necessity, 
and  contempt,  to  contend  with  them  and  to  keep  the  soul  in 
breath :  "  Miiltum  sihi  adjicit  virtus  lacessita."  *  'Tis  one  of 
the  reasons  why  Epaminondas,  who  was  yet  of  a  third  sect,"* 
refused  the  riches  fortune  presented  to  him  by  very  lawful 
means ;  because,  said  he,  "  I  am  to  contend  with  poverty,"  in 
which  extreme  he  maintained  himself  to  the  last.  Socrates  put 
himself,  methinks,  upon  a  ruder  trial,  keeping  for  his  exercise 
a  confounded  scolding  wife;  which  was  fighting  at  sharps. 
Metellus  having,  of  all  the  Roman  senators  alone  attempted, 
by  the  power  of  virtue,  to  withstand  the  violence  of  Saturninus, 
tribune  of  the  people  at  Rome,  who  would,  by  all  means,  cause 
an  unjust  law  to  pass  in  favor  of  the  commons,  and  by  so  doing, 
having  incurred  the  capital  penalties  that  Saturninus  had  es- 
tablished against  the  dissentient,  entertained  those  who,  in  this 
extremity,  led  him  to  execution  with  words  to  this  effect:  That 
it  was  a  thing  too  easy  and  too  base  to  do  ill ;  and  that  to  do 
well  where  there  was  no  danger  was  a  common  thing;  but  that 
to  do  well  where  there  was  danger  was  the  proper  office  of  a 
man  of  virtue."     These  words  of  Metellus  very  clearly  repre- 

»  "  And  those  whom  we  call  lovers  of  *  "  Virtue    is    much    strengthened    by 

pleasure,  beinff,  in  effect,  lovers  of  hon-  combats."— Seneca,    "  Epistoix    ad    Lu- 

or  and  justice,  cultivate  and  practise  all  cilium,"   iq. 
the  virtues."— Cicero,  "  Ep.  Fam.,"  xv.  "The  PythaRorean.  ,  ,,    . 

1    ij,  •  Plutarch,      Life  of  Marius,"  c.  lo. 


OF  CRUELTY  5 

sent  tr  us  what  I  would  make  out,  viz.,  that  virtue  refuses  fa- 
cihty  for  a  companion  ;  and  that  the  easy,  smooth,  and  de- 
scending way  by  which  the  regular  steps  of  a  sweet  disposition 
of  nature  are  conducted  is  not  that  of  a  true  virtue ;  she  re- 
quires a  rough  and  stormy  passage ;  she  will  have  either  exotic 
difificulties  to  wrestle  with,  like  that  of  Metellus,  by  means 
whereof  fortune  delights  to  interrupt  the  speed  of  her  career, 
or  internal  difificulties,  that  the  inordinate  appetites  and  imper- 
fections of  our  condition  introduce  to  disturb  her. 

I  am  come  thus  far  at  my  ease ;  but  here  it  comes  into  my 
head  that  the  soul  of  Socrates,  the  most  perfect  that  ever  came 
to  my  knowledge,  should,  by  this  rule^  be  of  very  little  recom- 
mendation ;  for  I  cannot  conceive  in  that  person  any  the  least 
motion  of  a  vicious  inclination :  I  cannot  imagine  there  could 
be  any  difficulty  or  constraint  in  the  course  of  his  virtue:  I 
know  his  reason  to  be  so  powerful  and  sovereign  over  him 
that  she  would  never  have  suffered  a  vicious  appetite  so  much 
as  to  spring  in  him.  To  a  virtue  so  elevated  as  his,  I  have 
nothing  to  oppose.  Methinks  I  see  him  march,  with  a  vic- 
torious and  triumphant  pace,  in  pomp  and  at  his  ease,  without 
opposition  or  disturbance.  If  virtue  cannot  shine  bright  but 
by  the  conflict  of  contrary  appetites,  shall  we  then  say  that  she 
cannot  subsist  without  the  assistance  of  vice,  and  that  it  is  from 
her  that  she  derives  her  reputation  and  honor?  What  then, 
also,  would  become  of  that  brave  and  generous  Epicurean 
pleasure,  which  makes  account  that  it  nourishes  virtue  ten- 
derly in  her  lap,  and  there  makes  it  play  and  wanton,  giving 
it  for  toys  to  play  withal,  shame,  fevers,  poverty,  death,  and 
torments  ?  If  I  presuppose  that  a  perfect  virtue  manifests  itself 
in  contending,  in  patient  enduring  of  pain,  and  undergoing  the 
uttermost  extremity  of  the  gout,  without  being  moved  in  her 
seat ;  if  I  give  her  troubles  and  difficulty  for  her  necessary  ob- 
jects :  what  will  become  of  a  virtue  elevated  to  such  a  degree, 
as  not  only  to  despise  pain,  but,  moreover,  to  rejoice  in  it,  and 
to  be  tickled  with  the  daggers  of  a  sharp  gout,  such  as  the 
Epicureans  have  established,  and  of  which  many  of  them,  by 
their  actions,  have  given  most  manifest  proofs?  As  have  sev- 
eral others,  who  I  find  to  have  surpassed  in  effects  even  the 
very  rules  of  their  discipline ;  witness  the  younger  Cato :  when 
I  see  him  die,  and  tearing  out  his  own  bowels,  I  am  not  satisfied 


6  MONTAIGNE 

simply  to  believe  that  he  had  then  his  soul  totally  exempt  from 
all  trouble  and  horror :  I  cannot  think  that  he  only  maintained 
himself  in  the  steadiness  that  the  Stoical  rules  prescribed  him ; 
temperate,  without  emotion  and  imperturbed.  There  was, 
methinks,  something  in  the  virtue  of  this  man  too  sprightly 
and  fresh  to  stop  there;  I  believe  that,  without  doubt,  he  felt 
a  pleasure  and  delight  in  so  noble  an  action,  and  was  more 
pleased  in  it  than  in  any  other  of  his  life :  "  Sic  abiit  e  vita,  ut 
caiisam  moriendi  nactum  se  esse  ganderet."  ^  I  believe  it  so 
thoroughly  that  I  question  whether  he  would  have  been  con- 
tent to  have  been  deprived  of  the  occasion  of  so  brave  an 
execution ;  and  if  the  goodness  that  made  him  embrace  the 
public  concern  more  than  his  own,  withheld  me  not,  I  should 
easily  fall  into  an  opinion  that  he  thought  himself  obliged  to 
fortune  for  having  put  his  virtue  upon  so  brave  a  trial,  and  for 
having  favored  that  thief  ^  in  treading  underfoot  the  ancient 
liberty  of  his  country.  Methinks  I  read  in  this  action  I  know 
not  what  exaltation  in  his  soul,  and  an  extraordinary  and  manly 
emotion  of  pleasure  when  he  looked  upon  the  generosity  and 
height  of  his  enterprise : 

'*  Deliberata  morte  ferocior  .^*  • 

not  stimulated  with  any  hope  of  glory,  as  the  popular  and  ef- 
feminate judgments  of  some  have  concluded  (for  that  consid- 
eration was  too  mean  and  low  to  possess  so  generous,  so 
haughty,  and  so  determined  a  heart  as  his),  but  for  the  very 
beauty  of  the  thing  in  itself,  which  he  who  had  the  handling  of 
the  springs  discerned  more  clearly  and  in  its  perfection  than 
we  are  able  to  do.  Philosophy  has  obliged  me  in  determining 
that  so  brave  an  action  had  been  indecently  placed  in  any  other 
life  than  that  of  Cato ;  and  that  it  only  appertained  to  his  to  end 
so ;  notwithstanding,  and  according  to  reason,  he  commanded 
his  son  and  the  senators  who  accompanied  him  to  take  another 
course  in  their  affairs :  "  Catoni,  qutim  incredihilcm  natura 
tribuisset  gravitatcm,  eamque  ipse  perpetua  constantia  robora- 
vissct,  semperque  in  proposito  consilio  permansissct,  morlcndum 
potius,  quam  tyranni  vulttis  aspiciendus,  erat."  *"     Every  death 

'  "  He    quitted    life,    rejoicing    that    m  •  "  Bolder  because  he  had  determined 

reason    for   dying    had    arisen.' —Cicero,  to  die."— Horace,  "  Odes,"  i.  3^.  29. 

"  Tusc.    Quaes.,"   i.   30.  ""Nature   having  end\ied   Cato  with 

*  Czsar.  an  incredible  gravity,  which  he  had  also 


OF    CRUELTY  7 

ought  to  hold  proportion  with  the  life  before  it ;  we  do  not 
become  others  for  dying.  I  always  interpret  the  death  by  the 
life  preceding ;  and  if  anyone  tell  me  of  a  death  strong  and  con- 
stant in  appearance,  annexed  to  a  feeble  life,  I  conclude  it  pro- 
duced by  some  feeble  cause,  and  suitable  to  the  life  before. 
The  easiness  then  of  this  death  and  the  facility  of  dying  he  had 
acquired  by  the  vigor  of  his  soul ;  shall  we  say  that  it  ought  to 
abate  anything  of  the  lustre  of  his  virtue?  And  who,  that  has 
his  brain  never  so  Httle  tinctured  with  the  true  philosophy,  can 
be  content  to  imagine  Socrates  only  free  from  fear  and  passion 
in  the  accident  of  his  prison,  fetters,  and  condemnation  ?  and 
that  will  not  discover  in  him  not  only  firmness  and  constancy 
(which  was  his  ordinary  condition),  but,  moreover,  I  know  not 
what  new  satisfaction,  and  a  frolic  cheerfulness  in  his  last 
words  and  actions  ?  In  the  start  he  gave  with  the  pleasure  of 
scratching  his  leg  when  his  irons  were  taken  ofT,  does  he  not 
discover  an  equal  serenity  and  joy  in  his  soul  for  being  freed 
from  past  inconveniences,  and  at  the  same  time  to  enter  into 
the  knowledge  of  things  to  come?  Cato  shall  pardon  me,  if 
he  please ;  his  death  indeed  is  more  tragical  and  more  linger- 
ing ;  but  yet  this  is,  I  know  not  how,  methinks,  finer.  Aristip- 
pus,  to  one  that  was  lamenting  this  death :  "  The  gods  grant 
me  such  a  one,"  said  he."  A  man  discerns  in  the  soul  of  these 
two  great  men  and  their  imitators  (for  I  very  much  doubt 
whether  there  were  ever  their  equals)  so  perfect  a  habitude  to 
virtue,  that  it  was  turned  to  a  complexion.  It  is  no  longer  a 
laborious  virtue  nor  the  precepts  of  reason,  to  maintain  which 
the  soul  is  so  racked,  but  the  very  essence  of  their  soul,  its  nat- 
ural and  ordinary  habit ;  they  have  rendered  it  such  by  a  long 
practice  of  philosophical  precepts  having  lit  upon  a  rich  and 
fine  nature ;  the  vicious  passions  that  spring  in  us  can  find  no 
entrance  into  them :  the  force  and  vigor  of  their  soul  stifle  and 
extinguish  irregular  desires,  so  soon  as  they  begin  to  move. 

Now,  that  it  is  not  more  noble,  by  a  high  and  divine  reso- 
lution, to  hinder  the  birth  of  temptations,  and  to  be  so  formed 
to  virtue,  that  the  very  seeds  of  vice  are  rooted  out,  than  to 
hinder  by  main  force  their  progress ;  and,  having  suffered  our- 

fortified    with    a    perpetual    constancy,        the   face   of  the  tyrant."— Cicero,   *'  De 

vrithout  ever  flas^Ring  in  his  resolution,        Oflfic,"  i.   31. 

he  must  of  necessity  rather  die  than  see  "  Diogenes  Laertius,  11.  70« 


8  MONTAIGNE 

selves  to  be  surprised  with  the  first  motions  of  the  passions, 
to  arm  ourselves  and  to  stand  firm  to  oppose  their  progress, 
and  overcome  them ;  and  that  this  second  effect  is  not  also 
much  more  generous  than  to  be  simply  endowed  with  a  facile 
and  affable  nature,  of  itself  disaffected  to  debauchery  and  vice, 
I  do  not  think  can  be  doubted ;  for  this  third  and  last  sort  of 
virtue  seems  to  render  a  man  innocent,  but  not  virtuous ;  free 
from  doing  ill,  but  not  apt  enough  to  do  well :  considering  also, 
that  this  condition  is  so  near  neighbor  to  imperfection  and 
cowardice,  that  I  know  not  very  well  how  to  separate  the  con- 
fines and  distinguish  them ;  the  very  names  of  goodness  and 
innocence  are,  for  this  reason,  in  some  sort  grown  into  con- 
tempt. I  very  well  know  that  several  virtues,  as  chastity,  so- 
briety, and  temperance,  may  come  to  a  man  through  personal 
defects.  Constancy  in  danger,  if  it  must  be  so  called,  the  con- 
tempt of  death,  and  patience  in  misfortunes,  may  ofttimes  be 
found  in  men  for  want  of  well  judging  of  such  accidents,  and 
not  apprehending  them  for  such  as  they  are.  Want  of  ap- 
prehension and  stupidity  sometimes  counterfeit  virtuous  ef- 
fects ;  as  I  have  often  seen  it  happen,  that  men  have  been  com- 
mended for  what  really  merited  blame.  An  Italian  lord  once 
said  this,  in  my  presence,  to  the  disadvantage  of  his  own  na- 
tion :  that  the  subtlety  of  the  Italians,  and  the  vivacity  of  their 
conceptions  were  so  great,  and  they  foresaw  the  dangers  and 
accidents  that  might  befall  them  so  far  off,  that  it  was  not  to  be 
thought  strange,  if  they  were  often  in  war,  observed  to  provide 
for  their  safety,  even  before  they  had  discovered  the  peril ;  that 
we  French  and  the  Spaniards,  who  were  not  so  cunning,  went 
on  further,  and  that  we  must  be  made  to  see  and  feel  the  danger 
before  we  would  take  the  alarm ;  but  that  even  then  we  could 
not  stick  to  it.  But  the  Germans  and  Swiss,  more  heavy  and 
thick-skulled,  had  not  the  sense  to  look  about  them,  even  when 
the  blows  were  falling  about  their  ears.  Peradventure,  he  only 
talked  so  for  mirth's  sake;  and  yet  it  is  most  certain  that  in 
war  raw  soldiers  rush  into  danger  with  more  precipitancy  than 
after  they  have  been  well  cudgelled : 

"  Haud  if^narus     .     .      .     quantum  nova  gloria  in  armis, 
Et  prtrdu/ie  dec  us,  primo  certatniue  posset."  '^ 

'*  "  Not  ij^norant,  how  hope  of  glory  excites  the  young  soldier  in  the  first  essay 
of  arms."— "  ALat\<\"  xi.  154. 


OF   CRUELTY  9 

For  this  reason  it  is  that,  when  we  judge  of  a  particular  ac- 
tion, we  are  to  consider  the  circumstances,  and  the  whole  man 
by  whom  it  is  performed,  before  we  give  it  a  name. 

To  instance  in  myself:  I  have  sometimes  known  my  friends 
call  that  prudence  in  me,  which  was  merely  fortune ;  and  re- 
pute that  courage  and  patience,  which  was  judgment  and  opin- 
ion ;  and  attribute  to  me  one  title  for  another,  sometimes  to 
my  advantage  and  sometimes  otherwise.  As  to  the  rest,  I  am 
so  far  from  being  arrived  at  the  first  and  most  perfect  degree 
of  excellence,  where  virtue  is  turned  into  habit,  that  even  of 
the  second  I  have  made  no  great  proofs.  I  have  not  been  very 
solicitous  to  curb  the  desires  by  which  I  have  been  importuned. 
My  virtue  is  a  virtue,  or  rather  an  innocence,  casual  and  acci- 
dental. If  I  had  been  born  of  a  more  irregular  complexion,  I 
am  afraid  I  should  have  made  scurvy  work ;  for  I  never  ob- 
served any  great  stability  in  my  soul  to  resist  passions,  if  they 
were  never  so  little  vehement :  I  have  not  the  knack  of  nourish- 
ing quarrels  and  debates  in  my  own  bosom,  and,  consequently, 
owe  myself  no  great  thanks  that  I  am  free  from  several  vices. 

*'  Si  viiiis  mediocribus  et  mea  paucis 
Mendosa  est  natura,  aVioqui  recta j  velut  si 
Egregio  inspersos  reprehendas  corpore  navos : " '' 

I  owe  it  rather  to  my  fortune  than  my  reason.  She  has  caused 
me  to  be  descended  of  a  race  famous  for  integrity  and  of  a  very 
good  father ;  I  know  not  whether  or  no  he  has  infused  into  me 
part  of  his  humors,  or  whether  domestic  examples  and  the 
good  education  of  my  infancy  have  insensibly  assisted  in  the 
work,  or,  if  I  was  otherwise  born  so ; 

"Seu  Libra,  sett  me  Scorpius  adspicit 
Formidolosus,  pars  violentior, 
Natalis  horce,  seu  tyrannus 
Hesperice  Capricornus  tmdce  :  "  '* 

but  so  it  is,  that  I  have  naturally  a  horror  for  most  vices.  The 
answer  of  Antisthenes  to  him  who  asked  him,  which  was  the 
best  apprenticeship  "  to  unlearn  evil,"  seems  to  point  at  this. 

]^  "  If  my  nature  be   chargeable  only  '♦  "  Whether    I    was    born    under    the 

with    slight    and    few    vices,    and    I    am  Balance,    or   under   Scorpio,    formidable 

otherwise  of  rectitude,  the  venial  faults  at  the  natal  hour,   or  under  Capricorn, 

will   be  no   more  than   moles  on   a  fair  ruler  of  the   occidental   seas." — Horace, 

body."— Horatius,  "  Satires,"  i.  6,  65.  "  Odes,"  ii.   117. 


lo  MONTAIGNE 

I  have  them  in  horror,  I  say,  with  a  detestation  so  natural,  and 
so  much  my  own,  that  the  same  instinct  and  impression  I 
brought  of  them  with  me  from  my  nurse,  I  yet  retain,  and  no 
temptation  whatever  has  had  the  power  to  make  me  alter  it. 
Not  so  much  as  my  own  discourses,  which  in  some  things  lash- 
ing out  of  the  common  road  might  seem  easily  to  license  me 
to  actions  that  my  natural  inclination  makes  me  hate.  I  will 
say  a  prodigious  thing,  but  I  will  say  it  however :  I  find  myself 
in  many  things  more  under  reputation  by  my  manners  than 
by  my  opinion,  and  my  concupiscence  less  debauched  than  my 
reason.  Aristippus  instituted  opinions  so  bold  in  favor  of 
pleasure  and  riches  as  set  all  the  philosophers  against  him :  but 
as  to  his  manners,  Dionysius  the  tyrant,  having  presented 
three  beautiful  women  before  him,  to  take  his  choice,  he  made 
answer,  that  he  would  choose  them  all,  and  that  Paris  got 
himself  into  trouble  for  having  preferred  one  before  the  other 
two :  but,  having  taken  them  home  to  his  house,  he  sent  them 
back  untouched.  His  servant  finding  himself  overladen  upon 
the  way,  with  the  money  he  carried  after  him,  he  ordered  him 
to  pour  out  and  throw  away  that  which  troubled  him.  And 
Epicurus,  whose  doctrines  were  so  irreligious  and  effeminate, 
was  in  his  life  very  laborious  and  devout ;  he  wrote  to  a  friend 
of  his  that  he  lived  only  upon  biscuit  and  water,  entreating  him 
to  send  him  a  little  cheese,  to  lie  by  him  against  he  had  a  mind 
to  make  a  feast."  Must  it  be  true,  that  to  be  a  perfect  good 
man,  we  must  be  so  by  an  occult,  natural,  and  universal  pro- 
priety, without  law,  reason,  or  example?  The  debauches 
wherein  I  have  been  engaged,  have  not  been,  I  thank  God, 
of  the  worst  sort,  and  I  have  condemned  them  in  myself,  for 
my  judgment  was  never  infected  by  them ;  on  the  contrary, 
I  accuse  chem  more  severely  in  myself  than  in  any  other ;  but 
that  is  all,  for,  as  to  the  rest,  I  oppose  too  little  resistance  and 
suffer  myself  to  incline  too  much  to  the  other  side  of  the  bal- 
ance, excepting  that  T  moderate  them,  and  prevent  them  from 
mixing  with  other  vices,  which,  for  the  most  part  will  cling 
together,  if  a  man  have  not  a  care.  I  have  contracted  and  cur- 
tailed mine,  to  make  them  as  single  and  as  simple  as  I  can : 

"  Nfc  ultra 
Erroremfm/fP."  '* 
>* Diogenes  L»ertius,  x.  ii.  ""Not  carry  wrong  further."— Juvenal,  viii.  1(4. 


OF   CRUELTY  II 

For  as  to  the  opinion  of  the  Stoics,  who  say,  "  That  the  wise 
man  when  he  works,  works  by  all  the  virtues  together  though 
one  be  most  apparent,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  action ; " 
and  herein  the  similitude  of  a  human  body  might  serve  them 
somewhat,  for  the  action  of  anger  cannot  work  unless  all  the 
humors  assist  it,  though  choler  predominate ;  if  they  will 
thence  draw  a  like  consequence,  that  when  the  wicked  man 
does  wickedly,  he  does  it  by  all  the  vices  together,  I  do  not 
believe  it  to  be  so,  or  else  I  understand  them  not,  for  I  by  efifect 
find  the  contrary.  These  are  sharp,  unsubstantial  subtleties, 
with  which  philosophy  sometimes  amuses  itself.  I  follow 
some  vices,  but  I  fly  others  as  much  as  a  saint  would  do. 
The  Peripatetics  also  disown  this  indissoluble  connection; 
and  Aristotle  is  of  opinion  that  a  prudent  and  just  man 
may  be  intemperate  and  inconsistent.  Socrates  confessed 
to  some  who  had  discovered  a  certain  inclination  to  vice  in 
his  physiognomy,  that  it  was,  in  truth,  his  natural  propension, 
but  that  he  had  by  discipline  corrected  it.^^  And  such  as 
were  familiar  with  the  philosopher  Stilpo  said,  that  being 
born  with  addiction  to  wine  and  women,  he  had  by  study 
rendered  himself  very  abstinent  both  from  the  one  and  the 
other." 

What  I  have  in  me  of  good,  I  have,  quite  contrary,  by  the 
chance  of  my  birth ;  and  hold  it  not  either  by  law,  precept,  or 
any  other  instruction :  the  innocence  that  is  in  me  is  a  simple 
one;  little  vigor  and  no  art.  Among  other  vices,  I  mortally 
hate  cruelty,  both  by  nature  and  judgment  as  the  very  extreme 
of  all  vices ;  nay,  with  so  much  tenderness  that  I  cannot  see  a 
chicken's  neck  pulled  ofif,  without  trouble,  and  cannot,  without 
impatience,  endure  the  cry  of  a  hare  in  my  dog's  teeth,  though 
the  chase  be  a  violent  pleasure.  I  conceive  that  the  example  of 
the  pleasure  of  the  chase  would  be  more  proper ;  wherein  though 
the  pleasure  be  less,  there  is  the  higher  excitement  of  unex- 
pected joy ;  giving  no  time  for  the  reason,  taken  by  surprise,  to 
prepare  itself  for  the  encounter,  when  after  a  long  quest  the 
beast  starts  up  on  a  sudden  in  a  place  where,  peradventure,  we 
least  expected  it;  the  shock  and  the  ardor  of  the  shouts  and 
cries  of  the  hunters  so  strike  us,  that  it  would  be  hard  for  those 
who  love  this  lesser  chase,  to  turn  their  thoughts,  upon  the  in- 

"  Cicero,  *'  Tusc.  Quaes.,"  iv.  17.  *»  Idem,  "  De  Fato,"  c.  $. 


12  MONTAIGNE 

stant,  another  way ;  and  the  poets  make  Diana  triumph  over  the 
torch  and  shafts  of  Cupid : 

**  Quis  non  malarum,  guas  amor  curas  habety 
HcEC  inter  obliviscitur  ?  "  >9 

To  return  to  what  I  was  saying  before,  I  am  tenderly  com- 
passionate of  others'  afflictions,  and  should  readily  cry  for  com- 
pany, if,  upon  any  occasion  whatever,  I  could  cry  at  all.  Noth- 
ing tempts  my  tears,  but  tears,  and  not'only  those  that  are  real 
and  true,  but  whatever  they  are,  feigned  or  painted.  I  do  not 
much  lament  the  dead,  and  should  envy  them  rather;  but  I 
very  much  lament  the  dying.  The  savages  do  not  so  much 
offend  me,  in  roasting  and  eating  the  bodies  of  the  dead,  as 
they  do  who  torment  and  persecute  the  living.  Nay,  I  cannot 
look  so  much  as  upon  the  ordinary  executions  of  justice,  how 
reasonable  soever,  with  a  steady  eye.  Someone  having  to  give 
testimony  of  Julius  Caesar's  clemency ;  "  he  was,"  says  he, 
"  mild  in  his  revenges.  Having  compelled  the  pirates  to  yield 
by  whom  he  had  before  been  taken  prisoner  and  put  to  ran- 
som ;  forasmuch  as  he  had  threatened  them  with  the  cross,  he 
indeed  condemned  them  to  it,  but  it  was  after  they  had  been 
first  strangled.  He  punished  his  secretary  Philemon,  who  had 
attempted  to  poison  him,  with  no  greater  severity  than  mere 
death."  Without  naming  that  Latin  author,^"  who  thus  dares 
to  allege  as  a  testimony  of  mercy  the  killing  only  of  those  by 
whom  we  have  been  offended,  it  is  easy  to  guess  that  he  was 
struck  with  the  horrid  and  inhuman  examples  of  cruelty  prac- 
tised by  the  Roman  tyrants. 

For  my  part,  even  in  justice  itself,  all  that  exceeds  a  simple 
death  appears  to  me  pure  cruelty ;  especially  in  us  who  ought, 
having  regard  to  their  souls,  to  dismiss  them  in  a  good  and 
calm  condition ;  which  cannot  be,  when  we  have  agitated  them 
by  insufferable  torments.  Not  long  since  a  soldier  who  was 
a  prisoner,  perceiving  from  a  tower  where  he  was  shut  up  that 
the  people  began  to  assemble  to  the  place  of  execution,  and 
that  the  carpenters  were  busy  erecting  a  scaffold,  he  presently 
concluded  that  the  preparation  was  for  him  ;  and  therefore  en- 
tered into  a  resolution  to  kill  himself,  but  could  find  no  instru- 

""  Who  amoriK  such  delights,  would        ious  cares  of  love." — Horace,  "  Epod.,'' 
not  remove  out  of  his  thoughts  the  anx-       ii.  37. 

'•*  Suetonius,  "  Life  of  Gcsar,"  c.  74> 


OF   CRUELTY  13 

ment  to  assist  him  in  his  design  except  an  old  rusty  cart-nail 
that  fortune  presented  to  him.  With  this  he  first  gave  himself 
two  great  wounds  about  his  throat,  but  finding  these  would 
not  do,  he  presently  afterwards  gave  himself  a  third  in  the 
belly,  where  he  left  the  nail  sticking  up  to  the  head.  The  first 
of  his  keepers  who  came  in  found  him  in  this  condition ;  yet 
alive,  but  sunk  down  and  exhausted  by  his  wounds.  To  make 
use  of  time,  therefore,  before  he  should  die,  they  made  haste 
to  read  his  sentence ;  which  having  done,  and  he  hearing  that 
he  was  only  condemned  to  be  beheaded,  he  seemed  to  take  new 
courage,  accepted  wine  which  he  had  before  refused,  and 
thanked  his  judges  for  the  unhoped-for  mildness  of  their  sen- 
tence ;  saying,  that  he  had  taken  a  resolution  to  despatch  him- 
self for  fear  of  a  more  severe  and  insupportable  death,  having 
entertained  an  opinion,  by  the  preparations  he  had  seen  in  the 
place,  that  they  were  resolved  to  torment  him  with  some  hor- 
rible execution,  and  seemed  to  be  delivered  from  death,  in 
having  it  changed  from  what  he  apprehended. 

I  should  advise  that  those  examples  of  severity,  by  which 
'tis  designed  to  retain  the  people  in  their  duty,  might  be  exer- 
cised upon  the  dead  bodies  of  criminals ;  for  to  see  them  de- 
prived of  sepulture,  to  see  them  boiled  and  divided  into 
quarters,  would  almost  work  as  much  upon  the  vulgar,  as  the 
pain  they  make  the  living  endure  ;  though  that  in  effect  be  little 
or  nothing,  as  God  himself  says,  "  Who  kill  the  body,  and,  after 
that,  have  no  more  that  they  can  do ;  "  -^  and  the  poets  singu- 
larly dwell  upon  the  horrors  of  this  picture,  as  something  worse 
than  death : 

"  Heu  f  reliquias  semiassi  regis,  denudatis  ossibus. 
Per  terram  sanie  delibutas  foede  divexarier."  22 

I  happened  to  come  by  one  day,  accidentally,  at  Rome,  just  as 
they  were  upon  executing  Catena,  a  notorious  robber :  he  was 
strangled  without  any  emotion  of  the  spectators,  but  when  they 
came  to  cut  him  in  quarters  the  hangman  gave  not  a  blow  that 
the  people  did  not  follow  with  a  doleful  cry  and  exclamation,  as 
if  everyone  had  lent  his  sense  of  feeling  to  the  miserable  carcass. 
Those  inhuman  excesses  ought  to  be  exercised  upon  the  bark, 

"  Luke  xii.  4.  should   be   shamefully   dragsed   through 

•*  "  Alas!  that  the  half-burned  remains        the  dirt." — Cicero,  "  Tusc.  Quses.,"  i.  44. 
Cf  thcie  kings,  and  their  bared  bones, 


14  MONTAIGNE 

and  not  upon  the  quick.  Artaxerxes,  in  almost  a  like  case, 
moderated  the  severity  of  the  ancient  laws  of  Persia,  ordaining 
that  the  nobility  who  had  committed  a  fault,  instead  of  being 
whipped,  as  they  were  used  to  be,  should  be  stripped  only  and 
their  clothes  whipped  for  them;  and  that  whereas  they  were 
wont  to  tear  off  their  hair,  they  should  only  take  off  their  high- 
crowned  tiara.-^  The  so  devout  Egyptians  thought  they  suf- 
ficiently satisfied  the  divine  justice  by  sacrificing  hogs  in  effigy 
and  representation ;  a  bold  invention  to  pay  God,  so  essential  a 
substance,  in  picture  only  and  in  show. 

I  live  in  a  time  wherein  we  abound  in  incredible  examples  of 
this  vice,  through  the  license  of  our  civil  wars ;  and  we  see 
nothing  in  ancient  histories  more  extreme  than  what  we  have 
proof  of  every  day^  but  I  cannot,  any  the  more,  get  used  to  it. 
I  could  hardly  persuade  myself,  before  I  saw  it  with  my  eyes, 
that  there  could  be  found  souls  so  cruel  and  fell,  who,  for  the 
sole  pleasure  of  murder,  would  commit  it ;  would  hack  and  lop 
off  the  limbs  of  others ;  sharpen  their  wits  to  invent  unusual  tor- 
ments and  new  kinds  of  death,  without  hatred,  without  profit, 
and  for  no  other  end  but  only  to  enjoy  the  pleasant  spectacle  of 
the  gestures  and  motions,  the  lamentable  groans  and  cries  of  a 
man  dying  in  anguish.  For  this  is  the  utmost  point  to  which 
cruelty  can  arrive :  "  Ut  homo  hominem,  non  iratus,  non  timens, 
tan tu  1)1  spectaturus,  occidat."  -*  For  my  own  part,  I  cannot 
without  grief  see  so  much  as  an  innocent  beast  pursued  and 
killed  that  has  no  defence ;  and  from  which  we  have  received 
no  offence  at  all ;  and  that  which  frequently  happens,  that  the 
stag  we  hunt,  finding  himself  weak  and  out  of  breath,  and 
seeing  no  other  remedy,  surrenders  himself  to  us  who  pursue 
him,  imploring  mercy  by  his  tears, 

' '  Questuqtie  cruentus^ 
Atque  imploranti  similis"  ^5 

has  ever  been  to  me  a  very  unpleasing  sight ;  and  I  hardly  ever 
take  a  beast  alive  that  I  do  not  presently  turn  out  again.  Pythag- 
oras bought  them  of  fishermen  and  fowlers  to  do  the  same: 

«»  PhifcTrch,   "Notable   Sayings   of  (he  only  for  the  pleasvire  of  the  spectacle." 

Ancient    Kings."  _  — Seneca,  "  Kpistolx  ad   Lucilium,"  90. 

"*  "  That    a    Wan    should    kill    a    man  ^  "  Who,  hleedinR,  by  his  tears  seems 

without    being   angry,    or    without    fear,  to  crave  mercy."—"  ,.Encid,"  vii.  501. 


OF   CRUELTY  15 

"  Primoque  a  ccede/erarum, 
Incaluisse puto  maculatum  sanguine Jerrum."  ^6 

Those  natures  that  are  sanguinary  toward  beasts  discover  a 
natural  propension  to  cruelty.  After  they  had  accustomed 
themselves  at  Rome  to  spectacles  of  the  slaughter  of  animals, 
they  proceeded  to  those  of  the  slaughter  of  men,  to  the  gladi- 
ators. Nature  has,  herself,  I  fear,  imprinted  in  man  a  kind  of 
instinct  to  inhumanity ;  nobody  takes  pleasure  in  seeing  beasts 
play  with  and  caress  one  another,  but  everyone  is  delighted  with 
seeing  them  dismember  and  tear  one  another  to  pieces.  And 
that  I  may  not  be  laughed  at  for  the  sympathy  I  have  with 
them,  theology  itself  enjoins  us  some  favor  in  their  behalf ;  and 
considering  that  one  and  the  same  master  has  lodged  us  together 
in  this  palace  for  his  service,  and  that  they,  as  well  as  we,  are 
of  his  family,  it  has  reason  to  enjoin  us  some  affection  and  re- 
gard to  them.  Pythagoras  borrowed  the  metempsychosis  from 
the  Egyptians ;  but  it  has  since  been  received  by  several  nations, 
and  particularly  by  our  Druids : 

*'  Morte  carent  anitnce;  semperque ,  priore  relicta 
Sede,  novis  dofnibus  vivunt,  habitantque  receptee."  '^ 

The  religion  of  our  ancient  Gauls  maintained  that  souls,  being 
eternal,  never  ceased  to  remove  and  shift  their  places  from  one 
body  to  another;  mixing  moreover  with  this  fancy  some  con- 
sideration of  divine  justice;  for  according  to  the  deportments 
of  the  soul,  while  it  had  been  in  Alexander,  they  said  that  God 
assigned  it  another  body  to  inhabit,  more  or  less  painful,  and 
proper  for  its  condition. 

'^Muta  ferarutn 
Cogit  vinclapati;  truculenios  ingerit  ursis, 
PrcEdonesque  lupzs;  fallaces  vulpibus  addit: 
Atque  ubi  per  varios  annos,  per  mille figuras 
Egit,  Lethceo  purgatosfliimine,  tandem 
Rursus  ad  humanoe  revocat primordiaformce:  "  ^ 

«• "  I    think    'twas    slaughter   of   wild  chains  of  brutes,  the  bloodthirsty  souls 

*'«3Sts*hat  first  stained  the  steel  of  man  he   enclosed    in   bears;     the   thieves    in 

with  blood.  —Ovid,  '   Metamorphoses,"  wolves;     the  sly  in  foxes;    where  after 

*^!?7 1?o      1                   ■■      ,  having,  through  successive  years  and  a 

■"      tiouls  never  die,   but,   having  left  thousand   forms,   finished  these  careers, 

one  seat,  are  received  into  new  houses."  purging  them  well   in   Lethe's  flood,  at 

~«^."¥r     "Metamorphoses,"  xv.  158.  last  he  replaces  them  in  human  bodies." 

"•     ile    made    them    wear    the    silent  — Claudian,  "  Contra  Ruf.,"  ii.  482. 


I6  MONTAIGNE 

if  it  had  been  valiant,  he  lodged  it  in  the  body  of  a  lion ;  if  volup- 
tuous, in  that  of  a  hog;  if  timorous,  in  that  of  a  hart  or  hare ;  if 
malicious,  in  that  of  a  fox,  and  so  of  the  rest,  till  having  purified 
it  by  this  chastisement,  it  again  entered  into  the  body  of  some 
other  man : 

"  ipse  ego,  nam  meminiy  Trojani  tempore  belli 
Panthoides  Euphorbus  eram."  '^ 

As  to  the  relationship  between  us  and  beasts,  I  do  not  much 
admit  of  it ;  nor  of  that  which  several  nations,  and  those  among 
the  most  ancient  and  most  noble,  have  practised,  who  have  not 
only  received  brutes  into  their  society  and  companionship,  but 
have  given  them  a  rank  infinitely  above  themselves,  esteeming 
them  one  while  familiars  and  favorites  of  the  gods,  and  having 
them  in  more  than  human  reverence  and  respect ;  others  ac- 
knowledged no  other  god  or  divinity  than  they.  "  Belluce. 
a  barharis  propter  heneHciiim  consecratce: "  ^" 

"  Crocodilon  adorat 
Pars  hose;  ilia  pavet  saturam  serpentibus  ibin: 
Effigies  sacri  hie  nitet  aurea  cercopithecij 

Hie  piscemflianinis,  illic 
Oppida  iota  canem  venerantur."  ^^ 

And  the  very  interpretation  that  Plutarch  ^^  gives  to  this 
error,  which  is  very  well  conceived,  is  advantageous  to  them: 
for  he  says  that  it  was  not  the  cat  or  the  ox,  for  example,  that 
the  Egyptians  adored:  but  that  they,  in  those  beasts,  adored 
some  image  of  the  divine  faculties :  in  this,  patience  and  utility ; 
in  that  vivacity,  or,  as  with  our  neighbors  the  Burgundians  and 
all  the  Germans,  impatience  to  see  themselves  shut  up;  by 
which  they  represented  liberty,  which  they  loved  and  adored 
above  all  other  godlike  attributes,  and  so  of  the  rest.  But  when, 
among  the  more  moderate  opinions,  I  meet  with  arguments  that 
endeavor  to  demonstrate  the  near  resemblance  between  us  and 
animals,  how  large  a  share  they  have  in  our  greatest  privileges, 

»"  For  I  myself  remember  that  in  the  •»  "  This   place    adores   the   crocodile; 

days  of  the  Trojan  war.  I  was  Euphor-  another  dreads  the  ibis,   feeder  on   ser- 

bus,   !ion   of    Pantheus.   — (Ivid,    "  Rieta-  pents:    here  you  may  behold  the  statue 

morphoscs,"   XV.   i6o;  and   sec   Diogenes  of  a  monkey  shining  in  gold:    here  men 

Lacrlins,   "  Life  of   Pythagoras."  venerate  a  river  fish;    there  whole  towns 

*' " 'ilir  b.Trbarians  con«icrraled  be.Tst<;.  worship  a  dog." — Juvenal,  xv.  2. 

out  of  opinion  of  some  Ijencfit  received  "  "  On  Isis  and  Osiris,"  c.  39. 
by  them."— Cicero,  "  De  Natura  Deer.," 
i.  36- 


OF   CRUELTY 


17 


and  with  how  much  probability  they  compare  us  together,  truly 
I  abate  a  great  deal  of  our  presumption,  and  willingly  resign 
that  imaginary  sovereignty  that  is  attributed  to  us  over  other 
creatures. 

But  supposing  all  this  were  not  true,  there  is,  nevertheless,  a 
certain  respect,  a  general  duty  of  humanity,  not  only  to  beasts 
that  have  life  and  sense,  but  even  to  trees  and  plants.  We 
owe  justice  to  men,  and  graciousness  and  benignity  to  other 
creatures  that  are  capable  of  it;  there  is  a  certain  commerce 
and  mutual  obligation  between  them  and  us.  Nor  shall  I  be 
afraid  to  confess  the  tenderness  of  my  nature  so  childish,  that 
I  cannot  well  refuse  to  play  with  my  dog,  when  he  the  most  un- 
seasonably importunes  me  so  to  do.  The  Turks  have  alms  and 
hospitals  for  beasts.  The  Romans  had  public  care  to  the  nour- 
ishment of  geese,  by  whose  vigilance  their  capital  had  been 
preserved.  The  Athenians  made  a  decree  that  the  mules  and 
moyles  which  had  served  at  the  building  of  the  temple  called 
Hecatompedon  should  be  free  and  suffered  to  pasture  at  their 
own  choice,  without  hindrance.'*  The  Agrigentines  ^*  had  a 
common  use  solemnly  to  inter  the  beasts  they  had  a  kindness 
for,  as  horses  of  some  rare  quality,  dogs,  and  useful  birds,  and 
even  those  that  had  only  been  kept  to  divert  their  children; 
and  the  magnificence  that  was  ordinary  with  them  in  all  other 
things,  also  particularly  appeared  in  the  sumptuosity  and  num- 
bers of  monuments  erected  to  this  end,  and  which  remained 
in  their  beauty  several  ages  after.  The  Egyptians  ^^  buried 
wolves,  bears,  crocodiles,  dogs,  and  cats  in  sacred  places,  em- 
balmed their  bodies,  and  put  on  mourning  at  their  death.  Cimon 
gave  an  honorable  sepulture  to  the  mares  with  which  he  had 
three  times  gained  the  prize  of  the  course  at  the  Olympic 
Games.^^  The  ancient  Xantippus  caused  his  dog  to  be  in- 
terred on  an  eminence  near  the  sea,  which  has  ever  since  retained 
the  name,^^  and  Plutarch  says,  that  he  had  a  scruple  about  selling 
for  a  small  profit  to  the  slaughterer  an  ox  that  had  been  long  in 
his  service.^* 

»'  Plutarch,  "  Life  of  Cato  the  Censor,"  s"  Herodotus,  book  ii.  • 

c.  3.  "  Plutarch,  ut  supra. 

'*  Diodorus  Siculus,  xiii.  17.  se  Idem,  Ibid. 

»•  Idem,  Ibid. 


B— Vol.  60 


OF  REPENTANCE 

OTHERS  form  man ;  I  only  report  him ;  and  represent  a 
particular  one,  ill-fasliioned  enough,  and  whom,  if  I 
had  to  model  him  anew,  I  should  certainly  make  some- 
thing else  than  what  he  is :  but  that's  past  recalling.  Now, 
though  the  features  of  my  picture  alter  and  change,  'tis  not, 
however,  unlike:  the  world  eternally  turns  round;  all  things 
therein  are  incessantly  moving,  the  earth,  the  rocks  of  Caucasus, 
and  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  both  by  the  public  motion  and  their 
own.  Even  constancy  itself  is  no  other  but  a  slower  and  more 
languishing  motion.  I  cannot  fix  my  object;  'tis  always  totter- 
ing and  reeling  by  a  natural  giddiness :  I  take  it  as  it  is  at  the 
instant  I  consider  it;  I  do  not  paint  its  being,  I  paint  its  pas- 
sage ;  not  a  passing  from  one  age  to  another,  or,  as  the  people 
say,  from  seven  to  seven  years,  but  from  day  to  day,  from 
minute  to  minute.  I  must  accommodate  my  history  to  the  hour: 
I  may  presently  change,  not  only  by  fortune,  but  also  by  inten- 
tion. 'Tis  a  counterpart  of  various  and  changeable  accidents, 
and  of  irresolute  imaginations,  and,  as  it  falls  out,  sometimes 
contrary :  whether  it  be  that  I  am  then  another  self,  or  that  I 
take  subjects  by  other  circumstances  and  considerations:  so 
it  is,  that  T  may  peradventure  contradict  myself,  but,  as  Dema- 
des  said,  I  never  contradict  the  truth.  Could  my  soul  once  take 
footing,  I  would  not  essay  but  resolve :  but  it  is  always  learning 
and  making  trial. 

I  propose  a  life  ordinary  and  without  lustre:  'tis  all  one;  all 
moral  philosophy  may  as  well  be  applied  to  a  common  and 
private  life,  as  to  one  of  richer  composition :  every  man  carries 
the  entire  form  of  human  condition.  Authors  communicate 
themselves  to  the  people  by  some  especial  and  extrinsic  mark; 
I,  the  first  of  any,  by  my  universal  being;  as  Michel  de  Mon- 
taigne, not  as  a  grammarian,  a  poet,  or  a  lawyer.  If  the  world 
find  fault  that  I  speak  too  much  of  myself,  I  find  fault  that  they, 

19 


20  MONTAIGNE 

do  not  so  much  as  think  of  themselves.     But  is  it  reason,  that 
being  so  particular  in  my  way  of  living,  I  should  pretend  to 
recommend  myself  to  the  public  knowledge?     And  is  it  also 
reason  that  I  should  produce  to  the  world,  where  art  and 
handling  have  so  much  credit  and  authority,  crude  and  simple 
effects  of  nature,  and  of  a  weak  nature  to  boot?     Is  it  not  to 
build  a  wall  without  stone  or  brick,  or  some  such  thing,  to  write 
books  without  learning  and  without  art?     The  fancies  of  mu- 
sic are  carried  on  by  art ;  mine  by  chance.     I  have  this,  at  least, 
according  to  discipline,  that  never  any  man  treated  of  a  subject 
he  better  understood  and  knew,  than  I  what  I  have  undertaken, 
and  that  in  this  I  am  the  most  understanding  man  alive:   sec- 
ondly, that  never  any  man  penetrated  farther  into  his  matter,  nor 
better  and  more  distinctly  sifted  the  parts  and  sequences  of  it, 
nor  ever  more  exactly  and  fully  arrived  at  the  end  he  proposed 
to  himself.     To  perfect  it,  I  need  bring  nothing  but  fidelity 
to  the  work ;  and  that  is  there,  and  the  most  pure  and  sincere 
that  is  anywhere  to  be  found.     I  speak  truth,  not  so  much  as  I 
would,  but  as  much  as  I  dare ;  and  I  dare  a  little  the  more,  as  I 
grow  older ;  for,  methinks,  custom  allows  to  age  more  liberty  of 
prating,  and  more  indiscretion  of  talking  of  a  man's  self.     That 
cannot  fall  out  here,  w'hich  I  often  see  elsewhere,  that  the  work 
and  the  artificer  contradict  one  another :   "  Can  a  man  of  such 
sober  conversation  have  written  so  foolish  a  book?"     Or  "  Do 
so  learned  writings  proceed  from  a  man  of  so  weak  conversa- 
tion ?"     He  who  talks  at  a  very  ordinary  rate,  and  writes  rare 
matter,  'tis  to  say  that  his  capacity  is  borrowed  and  not  his  own. 
A  learned  man  is  not  learned  in  all  things :  but  a  sufficient  man 
is  sufficient  throughout,  even  to  ignorance  itself;  here  my  book 
and  I  go  hand  in  hand  together.     Elsewhere  men  may  com- 
mend or  censure  the  work,  without  reference  to  the  workman ; 
here  they  cannot :  who  touches  the  one,  touches  the  other.     He 
who  shall  judge  of  it  without  knowing  him,  will  more  wrong 
himself  than  me ;  he  who  does  know  him,  gives  me  all  the  satis- 
faction I  desire.     I  shall  be  happy  beyond  my  desert,  if  I  can  ob- 
tain only  thus  much  from  the  public  approbation,  as  to  make 
men  of  understanding  perceive  that  I  was  capable  of  profiting 
by  knowledge,  had  I  had  it ;  and  that  I  deserved  to  have  been 
assisted  by  a  better  memory. 

Be  pleased  here  to  excuse  what  I  often  repeat,  that  I  very 


OF  REPENTANCE  91 

rarely  repent,  and  that  my  conscience  is  satisfied  with  itself,  not 
as  the  conscience  of  an  angel,  or  that  of  a  horse,  but  as  the  con- 
science of  a  man,  always  adding  this  clause,  not  one  of  cere- 
mony, but  a  true  and  real  submission,  that  I  speak  inquiring  and 
doubting,  purely  and  simply  referring  myself  to  the  common 
and  accepted  beliefs  for  the  resolution.  I  do  not  teach,  I  only 
relate. 

There  is  no  vice  that  is  absolutely  a  vice  which  does  not  offend, 
and  that  a  sound  judgment  does  not  accuse ;  for  there  is  in  it  so 
manifest  a  deformity  and  inconvenience,  that,  peradventure, 
they  are  in  the  right  who  say  that  it  is  chiefly  begotten  by  stu- 
pidity and  ignorance :  so  hard  is  it  to  imagine  that  a  man  can 
know  without  abhorring  it.  Malice  sucks  up  the  greatest  part 
of  its  own  venom,  and  poisons  itself.^  Vice  leaves  repentance 
in  the  soul,  like  an  ulcer  in  the  flesh,  which  is  always  scratching 
and  lacerating  itself:  for  reason  effaces  all  other  grief  and  sor- 
rows, but  it  begets  that  of  repentance,  which  is  so  much  the 
more  grievous,  by  reason  it  springs  within,  as  the  cold  and  heat 
of  fevers  are  more  sharp  than  those  that  only  strike  upon  the 
outward  skin.  I  hold  for  vices  (but  every  one  according  to  its 
proportion),  not  only  those  which  reason  and  nature  condemn, 
but  those  also  which  the  opinion  of  men,  though  false  and 
erroneous,  have  made  such,  if  authorized  by  law  and  custom. 

There  is  likewise  no  virtue  which  does  not  rejoice  a  well-de- 
scended nature ;  there  is  a  kind  of,  I  know  not  what,  congratula- 
tion in  well-doing  that  gives  us  an  inward  satisfaction,  and  a 
generous  boldness  that  accompanies  a  good  conscience :  a  soul 
daringly  vicious  may,  peradventure,  arm  itself  with  security, 
but  it  cannot  supply  itself  with  this  complacency  and  satisfac- 
tion. 'Tis  no  little  satisfaction  to  feel  a  man's  self  preserved 
from  the  contagion  of  so  depraved  an  age,  and  to  say  to  himself: 
**  Whoever  could  penetrate  into  my  soul  would  not  there  find  me 
guilty  either  of  the  affliction  or  ruin  of  anyone,  or  of  revenge  or 
envy,  or  any  offence  against  the  public  laws,  or  of  innovation  or 
disturbance,  or  failure  of  my  word ;  and  though  the  license  of 
the  time  permits  and  teaches  everyone  so  to  do,  yet  have  I  not 
plundered  any  Frenchman's  goods,  or  taken  his  money,  and 
have  lived  upon  what  is  my  own,  in  war  as  well  as  in  peace; 
neither  have  I  set  any  man  to  work  without  paying  him  his 

*■  Seneca,  "  Epistolae  ad  Lucilium,"  8i. 


22  MONTAIGNE 

hire."  These  testimonies  of  a  good  conscience  please,  and  this 
natural  rejoicing  n  very  beneficial  to  us,  and  the  only  reward 
that  we  can  never  fail  of. 

To  ground  the  recompense  of  virtuous  actions  upon  the  ap- 
probation of  others  is  too  uncertain  and  unsafe  a  foundation, 
especially  in  so  corrupt  and  ignorant  an  age  as  this,  wherein 
the  good  opinion  of  the  vulgar  is  injurious :  upon  whom  do  you 
rely  to  show  you  what  is  recommendable  ?  God  defend  me  from 
being  an  honest  man,  according  to  the  descriptions  of  honor  I 
daily  see  everyone  make  of  himself.  "  Qncu  fuerant  vitia,  mores 
sunt."  ^  Some  of  my  friends  have  at  times  schooled  and 
scolded  me  with  great  sincerity  and  plainness,  either  of  their 
own  voluntary  motion,  or  by  me  entreated  to  it  as  to  an  office, 
which  to  a  well-composed  soul  surpasses  not  only  in  utility,  but 
in  kindness  all  other  offices  of  friendship:  I  have  always  re- 
ceived them  with  the  most  open  arms,  both  of  courtesy  and 
acknowledgment ;  but,  to  say  the  truth,  I  have  often  found  so 
much  false  measure,  both  in  their  reproaches  and  praises,  that 
I  had  not  done  much  amiss,  rather  to  have  done  ill,  than  to 
have  done  well  according  to  their  notions.  We,  who  live  pri- 
vate lives,  not  exposed  to  any  other  view  than  our  own,  ought 
chiefly  to  have  settled  a  pattern  within  ourselves  by  which  to  try 
our  actions ;  and  according  to  that,  sometimes  to  encourage  and 
sometimes  to  correct  ourselves.  I  have  my  laws  and  my  judica- 
ture to  judge  of  myself,  and  apply  myself  more  to  these  than  to 
any  other  rules :  I  do,  indeed,  restrain  my  actions  according  to 
others;  but  extend  them  not  by  any  other  rule  than  my  own. 
You  yourself  only  know  if  you  are  cowardly  and  cruel,  loyal 
and  devout :  others  see  you  not,  and  only  guess  at  you  by  un- 
certain conjectures,  and  do  not  so  much  see  your  nature  as 
your  art ;  rely  not  therefore  upon  their  opinions,  but  stick  to 
your  own:  "  Tuo  tibi  judicio  est  utendum.  .  .  .  Virtutis 
et  vitiorum  grave  ipsius  conscienticB  pondus  est:  qua  siihldta, 
jacent  omnia." ' 

But  the  saying  that  repentance  immediately  follows  the  sin 
seems  not  to  have  respect  to  sin  in  its  high  estate,  which  is 
lodged  in  us  as  in  its  own  proper  habitation.     One  may  disown 

• "  What    before   were   vices   are   now  of  thy  own  conscience  in  the  discovery 

right  manners." — Seneca,   "  Epistol.x  ad  of  thy  own  virtues  and  vices  that,  being 

Lucilium,"   39.  taken  away,  all  things  ::re  lost."— Cicero. 

»  "  Thou  must   employ  thy  own  judg-  "  Do  Nat.  Dei,"  iii.  35;  "  Tusc.  Quaes.," 

tncnt  upon  thyself;    great  is  the  weight  <.  25. 


OF    REPENTANCE  23 

and  retract  the  vices  that  surprise  us,  and  to  which  we  are  hur- 
ried by  passions ;  but  those  which  by  a  long  habit  are  rooted  in  a 
strong  and  vigorous  will  are  not  subject  to  contradiction.  Re- 
pentance is  no  other  but  a  recanting  of  the  will  and  an  opposition 
to  our  fancies,  which  lead  us  which  way  they  please.  It  makes 
this  person  disown  his  former  virtue  and  continency : 

**  Qtice  mens  est  hodie,  cur  eadem  non  puero  fuit  ? 
Vel  cur  his  anintis  incolum.es  non  redeunt gence  f"* 

'Tis  an  exact  life  that  maintains  itself  in  due  order  in  private. 
Everyone  may  juggle  his  part,  and  represent  an  honest  man 
upon  the  stage :  but  within,  and  in  his  own  bosom,  where  all  may 
do  as  they  list,  where  all  is  concealed,  to  be  regular — there's  the 
point.  The  next  degree  is  to  be  so  in  his  house,  and  in  his  ordi- 
nary actions,  for  which  we  are  accountable  to  none,  and  where 
there  is  no  study  nor  artifice.  And  therefore  Bias,  setting  forth 
the  excellent  state  of  a  private  family,  says :  "  of  which  '^  the 
master  is  the  same  within,  by  his  own  virtue  and  temper,  that 
he  is  abroad,  for  fear  of  the  laws  and  report  of  men."  And  it 
was  a  worthy  saying  of  Julius  Drusus,®  to  the  masons  who 
offered  him,  for  three  thousand  crowns,  to  put  his  house  in  such 
a  posture  that  his  neighbors  should  no  longer  have  the  same  in- 
spection into  it  as  before ;  "  I  will  give  you,"  said  he,  "  six  thou- 
sand to  make  it  so  that  everybody  may  see  into  every  room." 
'Tis  honorably  recorded  of  Agesilaus,'  that  he  used  in  his  jour- 
neys always  to  take  up  his  lodgings  in  temples,  to  the  end  that 
the  people  and  the  gods  themselves  might  pry  into  his  most 
private  actions.  Such  a  one  has  been  a  miracle  to  the  world, 
in  whom  neither  his  wife  nor  servant  has  ever  seen  anything  so 
much  as  remarkable ;  few  men  have  been  admired  by  their  own 
domestics ;  no  one  was  ever  a  prophet,  not  merely  in  his  own 
house,  but  in  his  own  country,  says  the  experience  of  histories  :• 
'tis  the  same  in  things  of  naught,  and  in  this  low  example  the 
image  of  a  greater  is  to  be  seen.  In  my  country  of  Gascony 
they  look  upon  it  as  a  drollery  to  see  me  in  print ;  the  further 

«  "  Why  was  I  not  of  the  same  mind  "  Instructions    to    those    who    Manage 

when  I  was  a  boy  that  I  am  now?    or  State  Affairs,"  but  he  was,   in  realitjr, 

why   do   not  the   ruddy  cheeks   of   my  Marcus  Livius  Drusus,  the  famous  tri- 

youth  return  to  help  me  now?  " — Hor-  bune,  as  we  find  in  Paterculus. 

ace,  "  Odes,"  iv.  10,  7.  '  Plutarch,  in  vita,  c.  s- 

'  Plutarch,    "  Banquet    of    the    Seven  '  No   man   is  a  hero   to   his   valet-de- 

Ssg^es."  chambre,  said  Marshal  Catinat. 

*He  is  called  so  by  Plutarch  in  his 


24  MONTAIGNE 

off  I  am  read  from  my  own  home,  the  better  I  am  esteemed. 
I  am  fain  to  purchase  printers  in  Guienne ;  elsewhere  they  pur- 
chase me.  Upon  this  it  is  that  they  lay  their  foundation  who 
conceal  themselves  present  and  living,  to  obtain  a  name  when 
they  are  absent  and  dead.  I  had  rather  have  a  great  deal  less 
in  hand,  and  do  not  expose  myself  to  the  world  upon  any  other 
account  than  my  present  share ;  when  I  leave  it  I  quit  the  rest. 
See  this  functionary  whom  the  people  escort  in  state,  with 
wonder  and  applause,  to  his  very  door ;  he  puts  off  the  pageant 
with  his  robe,  and  falls  so  much  the  lower  by  how  much  he  was 
higher  exalted :  in  himself  within,  all  is  tumult  and  degraded. 
And  though  all  should  be  regular  there,  it  will  require  a  vivid 
and  well-chosen  judgment  to  perceive  it  in  these  low  and  pri- 
vate actions ;  to  which  may  be  added,  that  order  is  a  dull,  som- 
bre virtue.  To  enter  a  breach,  conduct  an  embassy,  govern  a 
people,  are  actions  of  renown:  to  reprehend,  laugh,  sell,  pay, 
love,  hate,  and  gently  and  justly  converse  with  a  man's  own 
family,  and  with  himself ;  not  to  relax,  not  to  give  a  man's  self 
the  lie  is  more  rare  and  hard,  and  less  remarkable.  By  which 
means,  retired  lives,  whatever  is  said  to  the  contrary,  undergo 
duties  of  as  great  or  greater  difficulty  than  the  others  do ;  and 
private  men,  says  Aristotle,"  serve  virtue  more  painfully  and 
highly,  than  those  in  authority  do:  we  prepare  ourselves  for 
eminent  occasions,  more  out  of  glory  than  conscience.  The 
shortest  way  to  arrive  at  glory  would  be  to  do  that  for  conscience 
which  we  do  for  glory :  and  the  virtue  of  Alexander  appears  to 
me  of  much  less  vigor  in  his  great  theatre,  than  that  of  Socrates 
in  his  mean  and  obscure  employment.  I  can  easily  conceive 
Socrates  in  the  place  of  Alexander,  but  Alexander  in  that  of 
Socrates,  I  cannot.  Who  shall  ask  the  one  what  he  can  do,  he 
will  answer,  "  Subdue  the  world :"  and  who  shall  put  the  same 
question  to  the  other,  he  will  say,  "  Carry  on  human  life  con- 
formably with  its  natural  condition ;"  ^^  a  much  more  general, 
weighty,  and  legitimate  science  than  the  other. 

The  virtue  of  the  soul  does  not  consist  in  flying  high,  but  in 
walking  orderly ;  its  grandeur  does  not  exercise  itself  in 
grandeur,  but  in  mediocrity.  As  they  who  judge  and  try  us 
within  make  no  great  account  of  the  lustre  of  our  public  actions, 

• "  Moral,  ad  Nicom.,"  x.  7.  llic    world,"    but    he    afterwards    erased 

'»  Montaigne  added  here.      To  do  for        these  words  from  the  manuscript.— Nal« 
the  world  that  for  which  he  came  into       gcon. 


OF   REPENTANCE  2$ 

and  see  they  are  only  streaks  and  rays  of  clear  water  springing 
from  a  slimy  and  muddy  bottom:  so,  likewise,  they  who  judge 
of  us  by  this  gallant  outward  appearance,  in  like  manner  con- 
clude of  our  internal  constitution ;  and  cannot  couple  common 
faculties,  and  like  their  own,  with  the  other  faculties  that  as- 
tonish them,  and  are  so  far  out  of  their  sight.  Therefore  it  is 
that  we  give  such  savage  forms  to  demons :  and  who  does  not 
give  Tamerlane  great  eyebrows,  wide  nostrils,  a  dreadful  visage, 
and  a  prodigious  stature,  according  to  the  imagination  he  has 
conceived  by  the  report  of  his  name?  Had  anyone  formerly 
brought  me  to  Erasmus,  I  should  hardly  have  believed  but  that 
all  was  adage  and  apothegm  he  spoke  to  his  man  or  his  hostess. 
We  much  more  aptly  imagine  an  artisan  having  a  call  of  nature, 
or  having  a  wife,  than  a  great  president  venerable  by  his  port 
and  sufficiency:  we  fancy  that  they,  from  their  high  tribu- 
nals, will  not  abase  themselves  so  much  as  to  live.  As  vicious 
souls  are  often  incited  by  some  foreign  impulse  to  do  well,  so 
are  virtuous  souls  to  do  ill ;  they  are  therefore  to  be  judged  by 
their  settled  state,  when  they  are  at  home,  whenever  that  may 
be ;  and,  at  all  events,  when  they  are  nearer  repose,  and  in  their 
native  station. 

Natural  inclinations  are  much  assisted  and  fortified  by  educa- 
tion :  but  they  seldom  alter  and  overcome  their  institution :  a 
thousand  natures  of  my  time  have  escaped  toward  virtue  or 
vice,  through  a  quite  contrary  discipline ; 

"  Sic  ubi  desueicB  silvis  in  career e  clauses 
MansueverefercB,  et  vultus  posuere  tninaces, 
Atque  kominem  didicere  pati,  si  torrida  parvus 
Venit  in  ora  cruor,  redeunt  rabiesque furorque, 
Admonitaque  tument  gztstato  sang7iine  fauces  ; 
Fervet,  et  a  trepido  vix  abstinet  ira  magistro;  "  ** 

these  original  qualities  are  not  to  be  rooted  out ;  they  may  be 
covered  and  concealed.  The  Latin  tongue  is  as  it  were  natural 
to  me ;  I  understand  it  better  than  French ;  but  I  have  not  been 
used  to  speak  it,  nor  hardly  to  write  it  these  forty  years.  Yet, 
upon  extreme  and  sudden  emotions  which  I  have  fallen  into 

"  "  So   savage  beasts,   when   shut  up  their  rage  and   fury  return,   their  jaws 

in  cages,   and   grown   unaccustomed   to  are  erected  by  thirst  of  blood,  and  they 

the  woods,  become  tame,  and  lay  aside  scarcely  forbear  to  assail  their  trembling 

their   fierce   looks,    and    submit    to    the  masters." — Lucan,  iv.  237. 
rule  of  man;    if  again  they  taste  blood, 


ae  MONTAIGNE 

twice  or  thrice  in  my  life,  and  once,  seeing  my  father  in  perfect 
health  fall  upon  me  in  a  swoon,  I  have  always  uttered  my  first 
outcries  and  ejaculations  in  Latin;  nature  starting  up,  and 
forcibly  expressing  itself,  in  spite  of  so  long  a  discontinuation ; 
and  this  example  is  said  of  many  others. 

They  who  in  my  time  have  attempted  to  correct  the  manners 
of  the  world  by  new  opinions  reform  seeming  vices,  but  the  es- 
sential vices  they  leave  as  they  were,  if  indeed,  they  do  not  aug- 
ment them ;  and  augmentation  is,  therein,  to  be  feared ;  we  defer 
all  other  well-doing  upon  the  account  of  these  external  reforma- 
tions, of  less  cost  and  greater  show,  and  thereby  expiate  cheaply, 
for  the  other  natural  consubstantial  and  intestine  vices.  Look 
a  little  into  our  experience :  there  is  no  man,  if  he  listen  to  him- 
self, who  does  not  in  himself  discover  a  particular  and  govern- 
ing form  of  his  own,  that  jostles  his  education,  and  wrestles 
with  the  tempest  of  passions  that  are  contrary  to  it.  For  my 
part,  I  seldom  find  myself  agitated  with  surprises ;  I  always 
find  myself  in  my  place,  as  heavy  and  unwieldy  bodies  do;  if 
I  am  not  at  home,  I  am  always  near  at  hand,  my  dissipations  do 
not  transport  me  very  far,  there  is  nothing  strange  nor  extreme 
in  the  case ;  and  yet  I  have  sound  and  vigorous  turns. 

The  true  condemnation,  and  which  touches  the  common  prac- 
tice of  men,  is  that  their  very  retirement  itself  is  full  of  filth 
and  corruption ;  the  idea  of  their  reformation  composed ;  their 
repentance  sick  and  faulty,  very  nearly  as  much  as  their  sin. 
Some,  either  from  having  been  linked  to  vice  by  a  natural  pro- 
pension,  or  long  practice,  cannot  see  its  deformity.  Others  (of 
which  constitution  I  am)  do  indeed  feel  the  weight  of  vice,  but 
they  counterbalance  it  with  pleasure,  or  some  other  occasion ; 
and  suffer,  and  lend  themselves  to  it,  for  a  certain  price,  but 
viciously  and  basely.  Yet  there  might,  haply,  be  imagined  so 
vast  a  disproportion  of  measure,  where  with  justice  the  pleasure 
might  excuse  the  sin,  as  we  say  of  utility ;  not  only  if  acci- 
dental, and  out  of  sin,  as  in  thefts,  but  the  very  exercise  of  sin, 
where  the  temptation  is  violent,  and  'tis  said,  sometimes  not  to 
be  overcome. 

Being  the  other  day  at  Armaignac,  on  the  estate  of  a  kins- 
man of  mine,  I  there  saw  a  country  fellow  who  was  by  everyone 
nicknamed  the  thief.  He  thus  related  the  story  of  his  life  ;  that 
being  born  a  beggar,  and  finding  that  he  should  not  be  able, 


OF   REPENTANCE  27 

SO  as  to  be  clear  of  indigence,  to  get  his  living  by  the  sweat  of 
his  brow,  he  resolved  to  turn  thief,  and  by  means  of  his 
strength  of  body,  had  exercised  tiiis  trade  all  the  time  of  his 
youth  in  great  security;  for  he  ever  made  his  harvest  and 
vintage  in  other  men's  grounds,  but  a  great  way  off,  and  in  so 
great  quantities,  that  it  was  not  to  be  imagined  one  man  could 
have  carried  away  so  much  in  one  night  upon  his  shoulders; 
and,  moreover,  was  careful  equally  to  divide  and  distribute  the 
mischief  he  did,  that  the  loss  was  of  less  importance  to  every 
particular  man.  He  is  now  grown  old,  and  rich  for  a  man  of 
his  condition,  thanks  to  his  trade,  which  he  openly  confesses 
to  everyone.  And  to  make  his  peace  with  God,  he  says,  that 
he  is  daily  ready  by  good  offices  to  make  satisfaction  to  the 
successors  of  those  he  has  robbed,  and  if  he  do  not  finish  (for 
to  do  it  all  at  once  he  is  not  able)  he  will  then  leave  it  in  charge 
to  his  heirs  to  perform  the  rest,  proportionably  to  the  wrong 
he  himself  only  knows  he  has  done  to  each.  By  this  descrip- 
tion, true  or  false,  this  man  looks  upon  theft  as  a  dishonest 
action,  and  hates  it,  but  less  than  poverty,  and  simply  repents ; 
but  to  the  extent  he  has  thus  recompensed,  he  repents  not. 
This  is  not  that  habit  which  incorporates  us  into  vice,  and  con- 
forms even  our  understanding  itself  to  it;  nor  is  it  that  im- 
petuous whirlwind  that  by  gusts  troubles  and  blinds  our  souls 
and  for  the  time  precipitates  us,  judgment  and  all,  into  the 
power  of  vice. 

I  customarily  do  what  I  do  thoroughly  and  make  but  one 
step  on't;  I  have  rarely  any  movement  that  hides  itself  and 
steals  away  from  my  reason,  and  that  does  not  proceed  in  the 
matter  by  the  consent  of  all  my  faculties,  without  division  or 
intestine  sedition ;  my  judgment  is  to  have  all  the  blame  or  all 
the  praise ;  and  the  blame  it  once  has,  it  has  always ;  for  almost 
from  my  infancy  it  has  ever  been  one;  the  same  inclination, 
the  same  turn,  the  same  force;  and  as  to  universal  opinions, 
I  fixed  myself  from  my  childhood  in  the  place  where  I  resolved 
to  stick.  There  are  some  sins  that  are  impetuous,  prompt, 
and  sudden ;  let  us  set  them  aside ;  but  in  these  other  sins  so 
often  repeated,  deliberated,  and  contrived,  whether  sins  of 
complexion  or  sins  of  profession  and  vocation,  I  cannot  con- 
ceive that  they  should  have  so  long  been  settled  in  the  same 
resolution,  unless  the  reason  and  conscience  of  him  who  has 


28  MONTAIGNE 

them,  be  constant  to  have  them ;  and  the  repentance  he  boasts 
to  be  inspired  with  on  a  sudden,  is  very  hard  for  me  to  imagine 
or  form,  I  follow  not  the  opinion  of  the  Pythagorean  sect, 
"  that  men  take  up  a  new  soul  when  they  repair  to  the  images 
of  the  gods  to  receive  their  oracles,"  unless  he  mean  that  it 
must  needs  be  extrinsic,  new,  and  lent  for  the  time;  our  own 
showing  so  little  sign  of  purification  and  cleanness,  fit  for  such 
an  office. 

They  act  quite  contrary  to  the  stoical  precepts,  who  do,  in- 
deed, command  us  to  correct  the  imperfections  and  vices  we 
know  ourselves  guilty  of,  but  forbid  us  therefore  to  disturb  the 
repose  of  our  souls ;  these  make  us  believe  that  they  have  great 
grief  and  remorse  within ;  but  of  amendment,  correction,  or 
interruption,  they  make  nothing  appear.  It  cannot  be  a  cure 
if  the  malady  be  not  wholly  discharged ;  if  repentance  were 
laid  upon  the  scale  of  the  balance,  it  would  weigh  down  sin. 
I  find  no  quality  so  easy  to  counterfeit  as  devotion,  if  men  do 
not  conform  their  manners  and  life  to  the  profession ;  its  es- 
sence is  abstruse  and  occult ;  the  appearances  easy  and  osten- 
tatious. 

For  my  own  part,  I  may  desire  in  general  to  be  other  than  I 
am  ;  I  may  condemn  and  dislike  my  whole  form,  and  beg  of 
Almighty  God  for  an  entire  reformation,  and  that  He  will 
please  to  pardon  my  natural  infirmity :  but  I  ought  not  to  call 
this  repentance,  methinks,  no  more,  than  the  being  dissatisfied 
that  I  am  not  an  angel  or  Cato.  My  actions  are  regular,  and 
conformable  with  what  I  am,  and  to  my  condition ;  I  can  do 
no  better;  and  repentance  does  not  properly  touch  things  that 
are  not  in  our  power ;  sorrow  does.  I  imagine  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  natures  more  elevated  and  regular  than  mine ;  and  yet 
I  do  not  for  all  that  improve  my  faculties,  no  more  than  my 
arm  or  will  grows  more  strong  and  vigorous  for  conceiving" 
those  of  another  to  be  so.  If  to  conceive  and  wish  a  nobler 
way  of  acting  than  that  we  have  should  produce  a  repentance 
of  our  own,  we  must  then  repent  us  of  our  most  innocent  ac- 
tions, forasmuch  as  we  may  well  suppose  that  in  a  more  ex- 
cellent nature  they  would  have  been  carried  on  with  greater 
dignity  and  perfection ;  and  we  would  that  ours  were  so. 
When  I  reflect  upon  the  deportments  of  my  youth,  with  that 
of  my  old  age,  I  find  that  I  have  commonly  behaved  myself 


OF   REPENTANCE 


29 


with  equal  order  in  both,  according  to  what  I  understand :  this 
is  all  that  my  resistance  can  do.  I  do  not  flatter  myself;  in 
the  same  circumstances  I  should  do  the  same  things.  It  is  not 
a  patch,  but  rather  a  universal  tincture,  with  which  1  am 
stained.  I  know  no  repentance,  superficial,  half-way,  and 
ceremonious ;  it  must  sting  me  all  over  before  I  can  call  it  so, 
and  must  prick  my  bowels  as  deeply  and  universally  as  God 
sees  into  me. 

As  to  business,  many  excellent  opportunities  have  escaped 
me  for  want  of  good  management ;  and  yet  my  deliberations 
were  sound  enough,  according  to  the  occurrences  presented  to 
me:  'tis  their  way  to  choose  always  the  easiest  and  safest 
course.  I  find  that,  in  my  former  resolves,  I  have  proceeded 
with  discretion,  according  to  my  own  rule,  and  according  to 
the  state  of  the  subject  proposed,  and  should  do  the  same  a 
thousand  years  hence  in  like  occasions ;  I  do  not  consider  what 
it  is  now,  but  what  it  was  then,  when  I  deliberated  on  it :  the 
force  of  all  counsel  consists  in  the  time ;  occasions  and  things 
eternally  shift  and  change.  I  have  in  my  life  committed  some 
important  errors,  not  for  want  of  good  understanding,  but  for 
want  of  good  luck.  There  are  secret,  and  not  to  be  foreseen, 
parts  in  matters  we  have  in  hand,  especially  in  the  nature  of 
men ;  mute  conditions,  that  make  no  show,  unknown  some- 
times even  to  the  possessors  themselves,  that  spring  and  start 
up  by  incidental  occasions ;  if  my  prudence  could  not  penetrate 
into  nor  foresee  them,  I  blame  it  not:  'tis  commissioned  no 
further  than  its  own  limits;  if  the  event  be  too  hard  for  me, 
and  take  the  side  I  have  refused,  there  is  no  remedy ;  I  do  not 
blame  myself,  I  accuse  my  fortune,  and  not  my  work ;  this 
cannot  be  called  repentance. 

Phocion,  having  given  the  Athenians  an  advice  that  was  not 
followed,  and  the  afTair  nevertheless  succeeding  contrary  to 
his  opinion,  someone  said  to  him :  "  Well,  Phocion,  art  thou 
content  that  matters  go  so  well  ?  "  "I  am  very  well  con- 
tent," replied  he,  "  that  this  has  happened  so  well,  but  I  do 
not  repent  that  I  counselled  the  other."  "  When  any  of  my 
friends  address  themselves  to  me  for  advice,  I  give  it  can- 
didly and  clearly,  without  sticking,  as  almost  all  other  men 
do,  at  the  hazard  of  the  thing's  falling  out  contrary  to  my  opin- 

"  PluUrch,  "  Apothegm." 


30 


MONTAIGNE 


ion,  and  that  I  may  be  reproached  for  my  counsel ;  I  am  very 
indifferent  as  to  that,  for  the  fault  will  be  theirs  for  having 
consulted  me,  and  I  could  not  refuse  them  that  office. 

I,  for  my  own  part,  can  rarely  blame  anyone  but  myself  for 
my  oversights  and  misfortunes,  for  indeed  I  seldom  solicit  the 
advice  of  another,  if  not  by  honor  of  ceremony,  or  excepting 
where  I  stand  in  need  of  information,  special  science,  or  as 
to  matter  of  fact.  But  in  things  wherein  I  stand  in  need  of 
nothing  but  judgment,  other  men's  reasons  may  serve  to  fortify 
my  own,  but  have  little  power  to  dissuade  me ;  I  hear  them  all 
with  civility  and  patience :  but  to  my  recollection,  I  never  made 
use  of  any  but  my  own.  With  me,  they  are  but  flies  and  atoms, 
that  confound  and  distract  my  will ;  I  lay  no  great  stress  upon 
my  opinions ;  but  I  lay  as  little  upon  those  of  others,  and  for- 
tune rewards  me  accordingly :  if  I  receive  but  little  advice,  I 
also  give  but  little.  I  am  seldom  consulted,  and  still  more 
seldom  believed,  and  know  no  concern,  either  public  or  pri- 
vate, that  has  been  mended  or  bettered  by  my  advice.  Even 
they  whom  fortune  had  in  some  sort  tied  to  my  direction,  have 
more  willingly  suffered  themselves  to  be  governed  by  any 
other  counsels  than  mine.  And  as  a  man  who  am  as  jealous 
of  my  repose  as  of  my  authority,  I  am  better  pleased  that  it 
should  be  so ;  in  leaving  me  there,  they  humor  what  I  profess, 
which  is  to  settle  and  wholly  contain  myself  within  myself.  I 
take  a  pleasure  in  being  uninterested  in  other  men's  affairs, 
and  disengaged  from  being  their  warranty,  and  responsible 
for  what  they  do. 

In  all  affairs  that  are  past,  be  it  how  it  will,  I  have  very  little 
regret ;  for  this  imagination  puts  me  out  of  my  pain,  that  they 
were  so  to  fall  out ;  they  are  in  the  great  revolution  of  the 
world,  and  in  the  chain  of  stoical  causes :  your  fancy  cannot,  by 
wish  and  imagination,  move  one  tittle,  but  that  the  great  cur- 
rent of  things  will  not  reverse  both  the  past  and  the  future. 

As  to  the  rest,  I  abominate  that  incidental  repentance  which 
old  age  brings  along  with  it.  He  who  said  of  old  "  that  he 
was  obliged  to  his  age  for  having  weaned  him  from  pleasure 
was  of  another  opinion  than  I  am ;  I  can  never  think  myself 
beholden  to  impotency,  for  any  good  it  can  do  to  me ;  "  Nec- 
tam  avcrsa  nnquam  videhitur  ah  opere  suo  providentia,  lit  dc' 

••  Sophocles,  Cicero,  "  Dc  Senectulc,"  C.  14. 


OF   REPENTANCE 


3« 


bilitas  inter  optima  inventa  sit."  "  Our  appetites  are  rare  in 
old  age ;  a  profound  satiety  seizes  us  after  the  act ;  in  this  1  see 
nothing  of  conscience ;  chagrin  and  weakness  imprint  in  us  a 
drowsy  and  rheumatic  virtue.  We  must  not  suffer  ourselves 
to  be  so  wholly  carried  away  by  natural  alterations,  as  to  suffer 
our  judgments  to  be  imposed  upon  by  them.  Youth  and 
pleasure  have  not  formerly  so  far  prevailed  with  me,  that  I  did 
not  well  enough  discern  the  face  of  vice  in  pleasure;  neither 
does  the  distaste  that  years  have  brought  me,  so  far  prevail 
with  me  now,  that  I  cannot  discern  pleasure  in  vice.  Now 
that  I  am  no  more  in  my  flourishing  age,  I  judge  as  well  of 
these  things  as  if  I  were.^°  I,  who  narrowly  and  strictly  ex- 
amine it,  find  my  reason  the  very  same  it  was  in  my  most  li- 
centious age,  except,  perhaps,  that  'tis  weaker  and  more  de- 
cayed by  being  grown  older;  and  I  find  that  the  pleasure  it 
refuses  me  upon  the  account  of  my  bodily  health,  it  would  no 
more  refuse  now,  in  consideration  of  the  health  of  my  soul, 
than  at  any  time  heretofore.  I  do  not  repute  it  the  more  valiant 
for  not  being  able  to  combat ;  my  temptations  are  so  broken 
and  mortified,  that  they  are  not  worth  its  opposition ;  holding 
but  out  my  hands,  I  repel  them.  Should  one  present  the  old 
concupiscence  before  it,  I  fear  it  would  have  less  power  to  re- 
sist it  than  heretofore ;  T  do  not  discern  that  in  itself  it  judges 
anything  otherwise  now,  than  it  formerly  did,  nor  that  it  has 
acquired  any  new  light :  wherefore,  if  there  be  convalescence, 
'tis  an  enchanted  one.  Miserable  kind  of  remedy,  to  owe  one's 
health  to  one's  disease!  'Tis  not  that  our  misfortune  should 
perform  this  oi^ce,  but  the  good  fortune  of  our  judgment.  I 
am  not  to  be  made  to  do  anything  by  persecutions  and  afflic- 
tions, but  to  curse  them :  that  is  for  people  who  cannot  be 
roused  but  by  a  whip.  My  reason  is  much  more  free  in  pros- 
perity, and  much  more  distracted,  and  put  to't  to  digest  pains 
than  pleasures :  I  see  best  in  a  clear  sky ;  health  admonishes 
me  more  cheerfully,  and  to  better  purpose,  than  sickness.  I 
did  all  that  in  me  lay  to  reform  and  regulate  myself  from  pleas- 
ures, at  a  time  when  I  had  health  and  vigor  to  enjoy  them  ;  I 
should  be  ashamed  and  envious,  that  the  misery  and  misfor- 

**  "  Nor  can  Providence  ever  be  seen  *•  "  Old  though  I  am,   for  ladies'  love 

•o  averse  to  her  own  work,  that  debility  unfit, 

should     be     ranked     amoni?     the     best  The  power  of  beauty   T   remember 

things."— Quintilian,     "  Instit.     Orat.,"  yet."                        —Chaucer. 


32  MONTAIGNE 

tune  of  my  old  age  should  have  credit  over  my  good,  healthful, 
sprightly,  and  vigorous  years ;  and  that  men  should  estimate 
me,  not  by  what  I  have  been,  but  by  what  I  have  ceased  to  be. 

In  my  opinion,  'tis  the  happy  living,  and  not  (as  Antis- 
thenes  ^^  said)  the  happy  dying,  in  which  human  felicity  con- 
sists. I  have  not  made  it  my  business  to  make  a  monstrous 
addition  of  a  philosopher's  tail  to  the  head  and  body  of  a 
libertine ;  nor  would  I  have  this  wretched  remainder  give  the 
lie  to  the  pleasant,  sound,  and  long  part  of  my  life:  I  would 
present  myself  uniformly  throughout.  Were  I  to  live  my  Ufe 
over  again,  I  should  live  it  just  as  I  have  lived  it ;  I  neither 
complain  of  the  past,  nor  do  I  fear  the  future ;  and  if  I  am  not 
much  deceived,  I  am  the  same  within  that  I  am  without.  'Tis 
one  main  obligation  I  have  to  my  fortune,  that  the  succession 
of  my  bodily  estate  has  been  carried  on  according  to  the  nat- 
ural seasons ;  I  have  seen  the  grass,  the  blossom,  and  the  fruit ; 
and  now  see  the  withering;  happily,  however,  because  nat- 
urally. I  bear  the  infirmities  I  have  the  better,  because  they 
came  not  till  I  had  reason  to  expect  them,  and  because  also 
they  make  me  with  greater  pleasure  remember  that  long  fe- 
licity of  my  past  life.  My  wisdom  may  have  been  just  the  same 
in  both  ages ;  but  it  was  more  active,  and  of  better  grace  while 
young  and  sprightly,  than  now  it  is  when  broken,  peevish,  and 
uneasy.  I  repudiate,  then,  these  casual  and  painful  reforma- 
tions. God  must  touch  our  hearts;  our  consciences  must 
amend  of  themselves,  by  the  aid  of  our  reason,  and  not  by  the 
decay  of  our  appetites ;  pleasure  is,  in  itself,  neither  pale  nor 
3iscolored,  to  be  discerned  by  dim  and  decayed  eyes. 

We  ought  to  love  temperance  for  itself,  and  because  God 
has  commanded  that  and  chastity ;  but  that  which  we  are  re- 
duced to  by  catarrhs,  and  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  the  stone, 
is  neither  chastity  nor  temperance ;  a  man  cannot  boast  that  he 
despises  and  resists  pleasure,  if  he  cannot  see  it,  if  he  knows 
not  what  it  is,  and  cannot  discern  its  graces,  its  force,  and  most 
alluring  beauties  ;  I  know  both  the  one  and  the  other,  and  may 
therefore  the  better  say  it.  But,  methinks,  ours  souls,  in  old 
age,  are  subject  to  more  troublesome  maladies  and  imperfec- 
tions than  in  youth ;  I  said  the  same  when  young  and  when  I 
was  reproached  with  the  want  of  a  beard ;  and  I  say  so  now 

••  Diogenes  Laertius,  vi.  5. 


OF   REPENTANCE  33 

that  my  gray  hairs  give  me  some  authority.  We  call  the  diffi- 
culty of  our  humors  and  the  disrelish  of  present  things  wisdom  ; 
but,  in  truth,  we  do  not  so  much  forsake  vices  as  we  change 
them,  and,  in  my  opinion,  for  worse.  Besides  a  foolish  and 
feeble  pride,  an  impertinent  prating,  froward  and  insociable 
humors,  superstition,  and  a  ridiculous  desire  of  riches  when  we 
have  lost  the  use  of  them,  I  find  there  more  envy,  injustice,  and 
malice.  Age  imprints  more  wrinkles  in  the  mind  than  it  does 
on  the  face;  and  souls  are  never,  or  very  rarely  seen,  that  in 
growing  old  do  not  smell  sour  and  musty.  Man  moves  all  to- 
gether, both  toward  his  perfection  and  decay.  In  observing 
the  wisdom  of  Socrates,  and  many  circumstances  of  his  con- 
demnation, I  should  dare  to  believe  that  he  in  some  sort  him- 
self purposely,  by  collusion,  contributed  to  it,  seeing  that,  at 
the  age  of  seventy  years,  he  might  fear  to  suffer  the  lofty 
motions  of  his  mind  to  be  cramped,  and  his  wonted  lustre  ob- 
scured." What  strange  metamorphoses  do  I  see  age  every 
day  make  in  many  of  my  acquaintance !  'Tis  a  potent  malady, 
and  that  naturally  and  imperceptibly  steals  into  us ;  a  vast  pro- 
vision of  study  and  great  precaution  are  required  to  evade  the 
imperfections  it  loads  us  with,  or  at  least,  to  weaken  their 
progress.  I  find  that,  notwithstanding  all  my  entrenchments, 
it  gets  foot  by  foot  upon  me ;  I  make  the  best  resistance  I  can, 
but  I  do  not  know  to  what  at  last  it  will  reduce  me.  But  fall 
out  what  will,  I  am  content  the  world  may  know,  when  I  am 
fallen,  from  what  I  fell. 

"Xenophon,  indeed,  tells  us  expressly  that  this  was  the  purpose  of  Socrates  in 
making  so  haughty  a  defence. 


OF  THE   INCONVENIENCE   OF  GREATNESS 

SINCE  we  cannot  attain  unto  it,  let  us  revenge  ourselves 
by  railing  at  it;  and  yet  it  is  not  absolutely  railing 
against  anything,  to  proclaim  its  defects,  because  they 
are  in  all  things  to  be  found,  how  beautiful  or  how  much  to  be 
coveted  soever.  Greatness  has  in  general  this  manifest  advan- 
tage, that  it  can  lower  itself  when  it  pleases,  and  has,  very  near, 
the  choice  of  both  the  one  and  the  other  condition ;  for  a  man 
does  not  fall  from  all  heights;  there  are  several  from  which 
one  may  descend  without  falling  down.  It  does,  indeed,  ap- 
pear to  me  that  we  value  it  at  too  high  a  rate,  and  also  over- 
value the  resolution  of  those  whom  we  have  either  seen,  or 
heard,  have  condemned  it,  or  displaced  themselves  of  their  own 
accord :  its  essence  is  not  so  evidently  commodious  that  a  man 
may  not,  without  a  miracle,  refuse  it.  I  find  it  a  very  hard 
thing  to  undergo  misfortunes,  but  to  be  content  with  a  mod- 
erate measure  of  fortune  and  to  avoid  greatness  I  think  a  very 
easy  matter.  'Tis  methinks,  a  virtue  to  which  I,  who  am  no 
conjurer,  could  without  any  great  endeavor  arrive.  What, 
then,  is  to  be  expected  from  them  that  would  yet  put  into  con- 
sideration the  glory  attending  this  refusal,  wherein  there  may 
lurk  worse  ambition  than  even  in  the  desire  itself,  and  fruition 
of  greatness?  Forasmuch  as  ambition  never  comports  itself 
better,  according  to  itself,  than  when  it  proceeds  by  obscure 
and  unfrequented  ways. 

I  incite  my  courage  to  patience,  but  I  rein  it  as  much  as  I 
can  toward  desire.  I  have  as  much  to  wish  for  as  another,  and 
allow  my  wishes  as  much  liberty  and  indiscretion ;  but,  yet  it 
never  befell  me  to  wish  for  either  empire  or  royalty,  or  the 
eminency  of  those  high  and  commanding  fortunes:  I  do  not 
aim  that  way;  I  love  myself  too  well.  When  I  think  to  grow 
greater  'tis  but  very  moderately,  and  by  a  compelled  and  tim- 
orous advancement,  such  as  is  proper  for  me  in  resolution,  in 

35 


36  MONTAIGNE 

prudence,  in  health,  in  beauty,  and  even  in  riches  too ;  but  this 
supreme  reputation,  this  mighty  authority,  oppress  my  imag- 
ination; and,  quite  contrary  to  that  other,^  I  should,  perad- 
venture,  rather  choose  to  be  the  second  or  third  in  Perigord, 
than  the  first  at  Paris :  at  least,  without  lying,  rather  the  third 
at  Paris  than  the  first.  I  would  neither  dispute,  a  miserable 
unknown,  with  a  nobleman's  porter,  nor  make  crowds  open 
in  adoration  as  I  pass.  I  am  trained  up  to  a  moderate  condi- 
tion, as  well  by  my  choice  as  fortune ;  and  have  made  it  appear, 
in  the  whole  conduct  of  my  life  and  enterprises,  that  I  have 
rather  avoided  than  otherwise  the  climbing  above  the  degree 
of  fortune  wherein  God  has  placed  me  by  my  birth :  all  natural 
constitution  is  equally  just  and  easy.  My  soul  is  so  sneaking 
that  I  measure  not  good  fortune  by  the  height,  but  by  the 
facility. 

But  if  my  heart  be  not  great  enough,  'tis  open  enough  to 
make  amends,  at  anyone's  request,  freely  to  lay  open  its  weak- 
ness. Should  anyone  put  me  upon  comparing  the  life  of  L. 
Thorius  Balbus,  a  brave  man,  handsome,  learned,  healthful, 
understanding,  and  abounding  in  all  sorts  of  conveniences  and 
pleasures,  leading  a  quiet  life,  and  all  his  own,  his  mind  well 
prepared  against  death,  superstition,  pain,  and  other  in- 
cumbrances of  human  necessity,  dying  at  last,  in  battle,  with 
his  sword  in  his  hand,  for  the  defence  of  his  country,  on  the 
one  part ;  and  on  the  other  part,  the  life  of  M.  Regulus,  so  great 
and  high  as  is  known  to  everyone,  and  his  end  admirable ;  the 
one  without  name  and  without  dignity,  the  other  exemplary, 
and  glorious  to  wonder.  I  should  doubtless  say  as  Cicero  did, 
could  I  speak  as  well  as  he.^  But  if  I  was  to  compare  them 
with  my  own,  I  should  then  also  say  that  the  first  is  as  much 
according  to  my  capacity,  and  from  desire,  which  I  conform  to 
my  capacity,  as  the  second  is  far  beyond  it ;  that  I  could  not 
approach  the  last  but  with  veneration,  the  other  I  could  readily 
attain  by  use. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  temporal  greatness,  from  which  we 
are  digressed.  I  disrelish  all  dominion,  whether  active  or 
passive.  Otanes,"  one  of  the  seven  who  had  right  to  pretend 
to  the  kingdom  of  Persia,  did,  as  I  should  willingly  have  done, 

'  Julius  Caesar.  the    preference    to    Regulus,    and    pro- 

•  Cicero,   "  De   Finibus,"   ii.   ao,  gives        claims  him  the  happier  man. 

*  Herodotus,  iii.  83. 


OF   THE   INCONVENIENCE   OF   GREATNESS  ST 

which  was,  that  he  gave  up  to  his  concurrents  his  right  of 
being  promoted  to  it,  either  by  election  or  by  lot,  provided  that 
he  and  his  might  live  in  the  empire  out  of  all  authority  and 
subjection,  those  of  the  ancient  laws  excepted,  and  might  enjoy 
all  liberty  that  was  not  prejudicial  to  these,  being  as  impatient 
of  commanding  as  of  being  commanded. 

The  most  painful  and  difficult  employment  in  the  world,  in 
my  opinion,  is  worthily  to  discharge  the  office  of  a  king.  I 
excuse  more  of  their  mistakes  than  men  commonly  do,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  intolerable  weight  of  their  function,  which 
astounds  me.  'Tis  hard  to  keep  measure  in  so  immeasurable 
a  power ;  yet  so  it  is,  that  it  is,  even  to  those  who  are  not  of  the 
best  nature,  a  singular  incitement  to  virtue,  to  be  seated  in  a 
place  where  you  cannot  do  the  least  good  that  shall  not  be  put 
upon  record ;  and  where  the  least  benefit  redounds  to  so  many 
men,  and  where  your  talent  of  administration,  like  that  of 
preachers,  principally  addresses  itself  to  the  people,  no  very 
exact  judge,  easy  to  deceive,  and  easily  content.  There  are 
few  things  wherein  we  can  give  a  sincere  judgment,  by  reason 
that  there  are  few  wherein  we  have  not,  in  some  sort,  a  private 
interest.  Superiority  and  inferiority,  dominion  and  subjec- 
tion, are  bound  to  a  natural  envy  and  contest,  and  must  of 
necessity  perpetually  intrench  upon  one  another.  I  believ« 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  touching  the  rights  of  the  other 
party;  let  reason,  therefore,  which  is  inflexible  and  without 
passion,  determine  when  we  can  avail  ourselves  of  it.  'Tis  not 
above  a  month  ago  that  I  read  over  two  Scotch  authors  con- 
tending upon  this  subject,  of  whom  he  who  stands  for  the 
people  makes  kings  to  be  in  a  worse  condition  than  a  carter ; 
and  he  who  writes  for  monarchy  places  them  some  degrees 
above  God  Almighty  in  power  and  sovereignty. 

Now,  the  inconveniency  of  greatness  that  I  have  made  choice 
of  to  consider  in  this  place,  upon  some  occasion  that  has  lately 
put  it  into  my  head,  is  this :  there  is  not,  peradventure,  anything 
more  pleasant  in  the  commerce  of  men  than  the  trials  that  we 
make  against  one  another,  out  of  emulation  of  honor  and 
worth,  whether  in  the  exercises  of  the  body  or  in  those  of  the 
mind,  wherein  sovereign  greatness  can  have  no  true  part. 
And,  in  earnest,  I  have  often  thought  that  by  force  of  respect 
itself  men  use  princes  disdainfully  and  injuriously  in  that  par- 


38  MONTAIGNE 

ticular;  for  the  thing  I  was  infinitely  offended  at  in  my  child- 
hood, that  they  who  exercised  with  me  forbore  to  do  their 
best  because  they  found  me  unworthy  of  their  utmost  en- 
deavor, is  what  we  see  happen  to  them  daily,  everyone  finding 
himself  unworthy  to  contend  with  them.  If  we  discover  that 
they  have  the  least  desire  to  get  the  better  of  us,  there  is  no 
one  who  will  not  make  it  his  business  to  give  it  them,  and  who 
will  not  rather  betray  his  own  glory  than  offend  theirs;  and 
will,  therein,  employ  so  much  force  only  as  is  necessary  to 
save  their  honor.  What  share  have  they,  then,  in  the  engage- 
ment, where  everyone  is  on  their  side  ?  Methinks  I  see  those 
Paladins  of  ancient  times  presenting  themselves  to  jousts  and 
battle  with  enchanted  arms  and  bodies.  Brisson,*  running 
against  Alexander,  purposely  missed  his  blow,  and  made  a 
fault  in  his  career ;  Alexander  chid  him  for  it,  but  he  ought  to 
have  had  him  whipped.  Upon  this  consideration  Carneades 
said,  that  "  the  sons  of  princes  learned  nothing  right  but  to 
ride ;  by  reason  that,  in  all  their  other  exercises,  everyone  bends 
and  yields  to  tbem ;  but  a  horse,  that  is  neither  a  flatterer  nor  a 
courtier,  throws  the  son  of  a  king  with  no  more  ceremony  than 
he  would  throw  that  of  a  porter." 

Homer  was  fain  to  consent  that  Venus,  so  sweet  and  delicate 
a  goddess  as  she  was,  should  be  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Troy, 
thereby  to  ascribe  courage  and  boldness  to  her ;  qualities  that 
cannot  possibly  be  in  those  who  are  exempt  from  danger.  The 
gods  are  made  to  be  angry,  to  fear,  to  run  away,  to  be  jealous, 
to  grieve,  to  be  transported  with  passions,  to  honor  them  with 
the  virtues  that,  among  us,  are  built  upon  these  imperfections. 
Who  does  not  participate  in  the  hazard  and  difficulty  can  claim 
no  interest  in  the  honor  and  pleasure  that  are  the  consequences 
of  hazardous  actions.  'Tis  pity  a  man  should  be  so  potent  that 
all  things  must  give  way  to  him ;  fortune  therein  sets  you  too 
remote  from  society,  and  places  you  in  too  great  a  solitude. 
This  easiness  and  mean  facility  of  making  all  things  bow 
under  you  is  an  enemy  to  all  sorts  of  pleasure :  'tis  to  slide,  not 
to  go ;  'tis  to  sleep,  and  not  to  live.  Conceive  man  accom- 
panied with  omnipotence :  you  overwhelm  him ;  he  must  beg 

*  Plutarch,  "  On  Satisfaction  or  Tran-        trrer    from    a    Friend,"    he    calls    him 
nuillity  of  llic  Mind."     But  in  his  essay,         Christo. 
•^  How  «  Man  may  Diitinguish  a  Flat- 


OF  THE  INCONVENIENCE  OF  GREATNESS     39 

disturbance  and  opposition  as  an  alms :  his  being  and  his  good 
are  in  indigence.^ 

Their  good  quaUties  are  dead  and  lost ;  for  they  can  only 
be  perceived  by  comparison,  and  we  put  them  out  of  this :  they 
have  little  knowledge  of  true  praise,  having  their  ears  deafened 
with  so  continual  and  uniform  an  approbation.  Have  they  to 
do  with  the  stupidest  of  all  their  subjects  ?  they  have  no  means 
to  take  any  advantage  of  him,  if  he  but  say :  "  'Tis  because  he 
is  my  king,"  he  thinks  he  has  said  enough  to  express,  that  he, 
therefore,  suffered  himself  to  be  overcome.  This  quality 
stifles  and  consumes  the  other  true  and  essential  qualities :  they 
are  sunk  in  the  royalty ;  and  leave  them  nothing  to  recommend 
themselves  with  but  actions  that  directly  concern  and  serve  the 
function  of  their  place ;  'tis  so  much  to  be  a  king,  that  this  alone 
remains  to  them.  The  outer  glare  that  environs  him  conceals 
and  shrouds  him  from  us ;  our  sight  is  there  repelled  and  dis- 
sipated, being  filled  and  stopped  by  this  prevailing  light.  The 
senate  awarded  the  prize  of  eloquence  to  Tiberius ;  he  refused 
it,  esteeming  that  though  it  had  been  just,  he  could  derive  no 
advantage  from  a  judgment  so  partial,  and  that  was  so  little 
free  to  judge. 

As  we  give  them  all  advantages  of  honor,  so  do  we  soothe 
and  authorize  all  their  vices  and  defects,  not  only  by  approba- 
tion, but  by  imitation  also.  Every  one  of  Alexander's  follow- 
ers carried  his  head  on  one  side,  as  he  did ;  and  the  flatterers  of 
Dionysius  ran  against  one  another  in  his  presence,  and  stum- 
bled at  and  overturned  whatever  was  under  foot,  to  show  they 
were  as  purblind  as  he.  Hernia  itself  has  also  served  to  recom- 
mend a  man  to  favor ;  I  have  seen  deafness  affected ;  and  be- 
cause the  master  hated  his  wife,  Plutarch  has  seen  his  courtiers 
repudiate  theirs,  whom  they  loved :  and,  which  is  yet  more, 
uncleanliness  and  all  manner  of  dissolution  have  so  been  in 
fashion ;  as  also  disloyalty,  blasphemy,  cruelty,  heresy,  super- 
stition, irreligion,  effeminacy,  and  worse,  if  worse  there  be :  and 
by  an  example  yet  more  dangerous  than  that  of  Mithridates's 
flatterers,  who,  as  their  master  pretended  to  the  honor  of  a 
good  physician,  came  to  him  to  have  incisions  and  cauteries 

'  In    the    Bordeaux    copy,    Montaigne        always  to  be  shunned,  nor  pleasure  al- 
here  adds,  "  Evil  to  man  is,  in  its  turn,        ways  to  be  pursued." 
good;    and  good,  evil.    Neither  is  pain 


40  MONTAIGNE 

made  in  their  limbs ;  for  these  others  suffered  the  soul,  a  more 
delicate  and  noble  part,  to  be  cauterized. 

But  to  end  where  I  began ;  the  Emperor  Adrian,  disputing 
with  the  philosopher  Favorinus  about  the  interpretation  of 
some  word,  Favorinus  soon  yielded  him  the  victory ;  for  which 
his  friends  rebuking  him :  "  You  talk  simply,"  said  he, 
"  would  you  not  have  him  wiser  than  I,  who  commands  thirty 
legions  ?  "  ®  Augustus  wrote  verses  against  Asinius  Pollio, 
and  "  I,"  said  Pollio,  "  say  nothing,  for  it  is  not  prudence  to 
write  in  contest  with  him  who  has  power  to  prescribe ; "  and 
he  had  reason ;  for  Dionysius,  because  he  could  not  equal 
Philoxenus  in  poesy  and  Plato  in  discourse,  condemned  the 
one  to  the  quarries,  and  sent  the  other  to  be  sold  for  a  slave 
into  the  island  of  ^gina. 

•  Spartian,  "  Life  of  Adrian,"  c.  15. 


OF  MANAGING  THE   WILL 

FEW  things,  in  comparison  of  what  commonly  affect  other 
men,  move,  or  to  say  better,  possess  me :  for  'tis  but 
reason  thej'  should  concern  a  man,  provided  they  do  not 
possess  him.  I  am  very  solicitous,  both  by  study  and  argu- 
ment, to  enlarge  this  privilege  of  insensibility,  which  is  in  me 
naturally  raised  to  a  pretty  degree,  so  that  consequently  I  es- 
pouse and  am  very  much  moved  with  very  few  things.  I  have 
a  clear  sight  enough,  but  I  fix  it  upon  very  few  objects ;  I  have 
a  sense  delicate  and  tender  enough;  but  an  apprehension  and 
application  hard  and  negligent.  I  am  very  unwilling  to  en- 
gage myself ;  as  much  as  in  me  lies,  I  employ  myself  wholly  on 
myself,  and  even  in  that  subject  should  rather  choose  to  curb 
and  restrain  my  affection  from  plunging  itself  over  head  and 
ears  into  it,  it  being  a  subject  that  I  possess  at  the  mercy  of 
others,  and  over  which  fortune  has  more  right  than  I ;  so  that 
even  as  to  health,  which  I  so  much  value,  'tis  all  the  more  neces- 
sary for  me  not  so  passionately  to  covet  and  heed  it,  than  to  find 
diseases  so  insupportable.  A  man  ought  to  moderate  himself 
between  the  hatred  of  pain  and  the  love  of  pleasure ;  and  Plato  ^ 
lets  down  a  middle  path  of  life  between  the  two.  But  against 
such  affections  as  wholly  carry  me  away  from  myself,  and 
fix  me  elsewhere,  against  those,  I  say,  I  oppose  myself  with  my 
utmost  power.  'Tis  my  opinion  that  a  man  should  lend  himself 
to  others,  and  only  give  himself  to  himself.  Were  my  will  easy 
to  lend  itself  out,  and  to  be  swayed,  I  should  not  stick  there;  I 
am  too  tender,  both  by  nature  and  use : 

"  Fugax  rerum,  securaque  in  otia  natus.^^ ' 

Hot  and  obstinate  disputes  wherein  my  adversary  would  at  last 
have  the  better,  the  issue  that  would  render  my  heat  and  obsti- 

*  "  Laws,"   vii. 

•  "  Born  and   bred   up   in   negligence  and  ease,"— Ovid,  "  De  Trist.,"  iii.  2,  9- 

^^  C— Vol.  CO 


42  MONTAIGNE 

nacy  disgraceful,  would  peradventure  vex  me  to  the  last  degree. 
Should  I  set  myself  to  it  at  the  rate  that  others  do,  my  soul  would 
never  have  the  force  to  bear  the  emotion  and  alarms  of  those  who 
grasp  at  so  much ;  it  would  immediately  be  disordered  by  this 
inward  agitation.  If,  sometimes,  I  have  been  put  upon  the 
management  of  other  men's  affairs,  I  have  promised  to  take  them 
in  hand,  but  not  into  my  lungs  and  liver ;  to  take  them  upon  me, 
not  to  incorporate  them :  to  take  pains,  yes :  to  be  impassioned 
about  it,  by  no  means ;  I  have  a  care  of  them,  but  I  will  not  sit 
upon  them.  I  have  enough  to  do  to  order  and  govern  the 
domestic  throng  of  those  that  I  have  in  my  own  veins  and 
bowels,  without  introducing  a  crowd  of  other  men's  affairs  ;  and 
am  sufficiently  concerned  about  my  own  proper  and  natural 
business,  without  meddling  with  the  concerns  of  others.  Such 
as  know  how  much  they  owe  to  themselves,  and  how  many 
offices  they  are  bound  to  of  their  own,  find  that  nature  has  cut 
them  out  work  enough  of  their  own  to  keep  them  from  being 
idle.     "  Thou  hast  business  enough  at  home,  look  to  that." 

Men  let  themselves  out  to  hire;  their  faculties  are  not  for 
themselves,  but  for  those  to  whom  they  have  enslaved  them- 
selves; 'tis  their  tenants  occupy  them,  not  themselves.  This 
common  humor  pleases  not  me.  We  must  be  thrifty  of  the 
liberty  of  our  souls,  and  never  let  it  out  but  upon  just  occa- 
sions, which  are  very  few,  if  we  judge  aright.  Do  but  observe 
such  as  have  accustomed  themselves  to  be  at  everyone's  call; 
they  do  it  indifferently  upon  all,  as  well  little  as  great  occasions ; 
in  that  which  nothing  concerns  them,  as  much  as  in  what  imports 
them  most.  They  thrust  themselves  in  indift'erently  wherever 
there  is  work  to  do  and  obligation ;  and  are  without  life  when 
not  in  tumultuous  bustle:  "In  negotiis  sunt  ncgotii  causa."  ^ 
It  is  not  so  much  that  they  will  go,  as  it  is  that  they  cannot 
stand  still ;  like  a  rolling  stone  that  cannot  stop  till  it  can  go  no 
further.  Occupation,  with  a  certain  sort  of  men,  is  a  mark 
of  understanding  and  dignity ;  their  souls  seek  repose  in  agita- 
tion, as  children  do  by  being  rocked  in  a  cradle ;  they  may  pro- 
nounce themselves  as  serviceable  to  their  friends,  as  they  are 
troublesome  to  themselves.  No  one  distributes  his  money  to 
others,  but  everyone  distributes  his  time  and  his  life ;  there  is 

»  "  They  only  seek  business  (or  business'  sake." — Seneca,  "  Epistola:  ad  Lu' 
ciliuM."  22. 


OF   MANAGING   THE   WILL 


43 


nothing  of  which  we  are  so  prodigal  as  of  these  two  things,  of 
which  to  be  thrifty  would  be  both  commendable  and  useful.  I 
am  of  a  quite  contrary  humor ;  I  look  to  myself,  and  commonly 
covet  with  no  great  ardor  what  I  do  desire ;  and  desire  little ; 
and  I  employ  and  busy  myself  at  the  same  rate,  rarely  and 
temperately.  Whatever  they  take  in  hand,  they  do  it  with  their 
utmost  will  and  vehemence.  There  are  so  many  dangerous 
steps,  that,  for  the  more  safety,  we  must  a  little  lightly  and 
superficially  glide  over  the  world,  and  not  rush  through  it. 
Pleasure  itself  is  painful  in  profundity : 

"  Incedis  per  ignes, 
Suppositos  cineri  doloso"  ^ 

The  parliament  of  Bordeaux  chose  me  mayor  of  their  city 
at  a  time  when  I  was  at  a  distance  from  France,'  and  still  more 
remote  from  any  such  thought.  I  entreated  to  be  excused,  but 
I  was  told  by  my  friends  that  I  had  committed  an  error  in  so 
doing,  and  the  greater  because  the  King  had,  moreover,  inter- 
posed his  command  in  that  affair.  'Tis  an  office  that  ought  to 
be  looked  upon  so  much  more  honorable,  as  it  has  no  other  salary 
nor  advantage  than  the  bare  honor  of  its  execution.  It  con- 
tinues two  years,  but  may  be  extended  by  a  second  election, 
which  very  rarely  happens ;  it  was  to  me,  and  had  never  been  so 
but  twice  before ;  some  years  ago  to  Monsieur  de  Lanssac,  and 
lately  to  Monsieur  de  Biron,  marshal  of  France,  in  whose  place 
I  succeeded  ;  and  I  left  mine  to  Monsieur  de  Matignon,  marshal 
of  France  also ;  proud  of  so  noble  a  fraternity — 

*^Utergue  bonus  facis  bellique  minister.''''  ^ 

Fortune  would  have  a  hand  in  my  promotion,  by  this  particular 
circumstance  which  she  put  in  of  her  own,  not  altogether  vain ; 
for  Alexander  disdained  the  ambassadors  of  Corinth,  who 
came  to  offer  him  a  burgess-ship  of  their  city ;  but  when  they 
proceeded  to  lay  before  him  that  Bacchus  and  Hercules  were 
also  in  the  register,  he  graciously  accepted  the  offer. 

At  my  arrival,  I  faithfully  and  conscientiously  represented 

♦"You    tread    on    fire,    hidden    under       September,  1 581 ;  see  Montaigne's  " Trav 
deceitful    ashes."— Horace,    "  Odes,"    ii.       els,"  ii.  448. 

''/'a.  .1.    u  .,      ^  ,,     •"  Each  an  able  minister  in  peace  and  in 

•  At  the  baths  Delia  Villa,  near  Lucca,       war."—"  ^neid,"  xi.  658. 


44  MONTAIGNE 

myself  to  them  for  such  as  I  find  myself  to  be — a  man  without 
memory,  without  vigilance,  without  experience,  and  without  vig- 
or; but  withal,  without  hatred,  without  ambition,  without  ava- 
rice, and  without  violence;  that  they  might  be  informed  of 
my  qualities,  and  know  what  they  were  to  expect  from  my 
service.  And  the  knowledge  they  had  had  of  my  father,  and  the 
honor  they  had  for  his  memory,  having  been  the  only  motive  to 
confer  this  favor  upon  me,  I  plainly  told  them  that  I  should 
be  ver>'  sorry  anything  should  make  so  great  an  impression  upon 
me  as  their  affairs  and  the  concerns  of  their  city  had  made  upon 
him,  while  he  held  the  government  to  which  they  had  preferred 
me.  I  remembered,  when  a  boy,  to  have  seen  him  in  his  old 
age  cruelly  tormented  with  these  public  affairs,  neglecting  the 
soft  repose  of  his  own  house,  to  which  the  declension  of  his 
age  had  reduced  him  for  several  years  before,  the  management 
of  his  own  affairs,  and  his  health ;  and  certainly  despising  his 
own  life,  which  was  in  great  danger  of  being  lost,  by  being 
engaged  in  long  and  painful  journeys  on  their  behalf.  Such 
was  he;  and  this  humor  of  his  proceeded  from  a  marvellous 
good-nature ;  never  was  there  a  more  charitable  and  popular 
soul.  Yet  this  proceeding  which  I  commend  in  others,  I  do 
not  love  to  follow  myself,  and  am  not  without  excuse. 

He  had  learned  that  a  man  must  forget  himself  for  his  neigh- 
bor, and  that  the  particular  was  of  no  manner  of  consideration 
in  comparison  with  the  general.  Most  of  the  rules  and  pre- 
cepts of  the  world  run  this  way ;  to  drive  us  out  of  ourselves  into 
the  street  for  the  benefit  of  public  society :  they  thought  to  do 
a  great  feat  to  divert  and  remove  us  from  ourselves,  assuming 
we  were  but  loo  much  fixed  there,  and  by  a  too  natural  inclina- 
tion ;  and  have  said  all  they  could  to  that  purpose :  for  'tis  no 
new  thing  for  the  sages  to  preach  things  as  they  serve,  not  as 
they  are.  Truth  has  its  obstructions,  inconveniences,  and  in- 
compatibilities with  us ;  we  must  often  deceive,  that  we  may  not 
deceive  ourselves ;  and  shut  our  eyes  and  our  understandings, 
to  redress  and  amend  them :  "  Impcriti  enini  judicant,  et  qui 
frequenter  in  hoc  ipsum  fallendi  sunt,  ne  errent."  "^  When 
they  order  us  to  love  three,  four,  or  fifty  degrees  of  things  above 
ourselves,  they  do  like  archers,  who,  to  hit  the  white,  take  their 

'  "  For  the  ifrnorant  juHrc,  and  there-        should  err." — Quintilian,  "  Inst.  Orat.,'^ 
fore  are   oft   to   be    deceived    lest   they        xi.  17. 


OF   MANAGING  THE  WILL  45 

aim  a  great  deal  higher  than  the  butt ;  to  make  a  crooked  stick 
straight,  we  bend  it  the  contrary  way. 

I  believe  that  in  the  Temple  of  Pallas,  as  we  see  in  all  other 
religions,  there  were  apparent  mysteries  to  be  exposed  to  the 
people ;  and  others,  more  secret  and  high,  that  were  only  to  be 
shown  to  such  as  were  professed;  'tis  likely  that  in  these  the 
true  point  of  friendship  that  everyone  owes  to  himself  is  to  be 
found ;  not  a  false  friendship,  that  makes  us  embrace  glory, 
knowledge,  riches,  and  the  like,  with  a  principal  and  immoderate 
affection,  as  members  of  our  being;  nor' an  indiscreet  and  ef- 
feminate friendship,  wherein  it  happens,  as  with  ivy,  that  it 
decays  and  ruins  the  walls  it  embraces ;  but  a  sound  and  regular 
friendship,  equally  useful  and  pleasant.  He  who  know^s  the 
duties  of  this  friendship  and  practices  them  is  truly  of  the 
cabinet  council  of  the  Muses,  and  has  attained  to  the  height  of 
human  wisdom  and  of  our  happiness;  such  a  one,  exactly 
knowing  what  he  owes  to  himself,  will  on  his  part  find  that  he 
ought  to  apply  to  himself  the  use  of  the  world  and  of  other  men ; 
and  to  do  this,  to  contribute  to  public  society  the  duties  and 
offices  appertaining  to  him.  He  who  does  not  in  some  sort  live 
for  others  does  not  live  much  for  himself:  "  Qui  sibi  amicus 
est,  scito  liuiic  amiciim  omnibus  esse."  ®  The  principal  charge 
we  have,  is,  to  everyone  his  own  conduct ;  and  'tis  for  this  only 
that  we  here  are.  As  he  who  should  forget  to  live  a  virtuous 
and  holy  life,  and  should  think  he  acquitted  himself  of  his  duty 
in  instructing  and  training  others  up  to  it,  would  be  a  fool; 
even  so  he  who  abandons  his  own  particular  healthful  and  pleas- 
ant living,  to  serve  others  therewith,  takes,  in  my  opinion,  a 
wrong  and  unnatural  course. 

I  would  not  that  men  should  refuse,  in  the  employments  they 
take  upon  them,  their  attention,  pains,  eloquence,  sw^eat,  and 
blood  if  need  be : 

*'Non  ipse  pro  caris  amicis 
Aui pairia,  timidus  perire  :  "  • 

but  'tis  only  borrowed,  and  accidentally ;  his  mind  being  always 
in  repose  and  in  health ;  not  without  action,  but  without  vexa- 
tion, without  passion.     To  be  simply  acting  costs  him  so  little 

* "  Tie    who    is    his    own    friend    is    a  • "  Not    afraid    to    die    for    beloved 

friend  to  everybody  else."  —  Seneca,  friends,  and  for  his  country."— Horace, 
"  Epistolae  ad  Lucilium,"  6.  "  Ode«,"  iv.  9,  51. 


46  MONTAIGNE 

that  he  acts  even  sleeping;  but  it  must  be  set  on  going  with 
discretion ;  for  the  body  receives  the  offices  imposed  upon  it, 
just  according  to  what  they  are;  the  mind  often  extends  and 
makes  them  heavier  at  its  own  expense,  giving  them  what 
measure  it  pleases.  Men  perform  like  things  with  several  sorts 
of  endeavor,  and  different  contention  of  v^-ill ;  the  one  does  well 
enough  without  the  other:  for  how  many  people  hazard  them- 
selves every  day  in  war  without  any  concern  which  way  it  goes ; 
and  thrust  themselves  into  the  dangers  of  battles,  the  loss  of 
which  will  not  break  their  next  night's  sleep?  and  such  a  man 
may  be  at  home,  out  of  the  danger  which  he  dared  not  have 
looked  upon,  who  is  more  passionately  concerned  for  the  issue 
of  this  war,  and  whose  soul  is  more  anxious  about  events,  than 
the  soldier  who  therein  stakes  his  blood  and  his  life.  I  could 
have  engaged  myself  in  public  employments  without  quitting 
my  own  matters  a  nail's  breadth,  and  have  given  myself  to 
others,  without  abandoning  myself.  This  sharpness  and  vio- 
lence of  desires  more  hinder  than  they  advance  the  execution 
of  what  they  undertake ;  fill  us  with  impatience  against  slow  or 
contrary  events,  and  with  heat  and  suspicion  against  those  with 
whom  we  have  to  do.  We  never  carry  on  that  thing  well  by 
which  we  are  prepossessed  and  led : 

"Male  cuncta  minz'strat 
Impetus."  ^^ 

He  who  therein  employs  only  his  judgment  and  address  pro- 
ceeds more  cheerfully :  he  counterfeits,  he  gives  way,  he  defers 
quite  at  his  ease,  according  to  the  necessities  of  occasions ;  he 
fails  in  his  attempt  without  trouble  and  affliction,  ready  and 
entire  for  a  new  enterprise ;  he  always  marches  with  the  bridle 
in  his  hand.  In  him  who  is  drunk  with  this  violent  and  tyran- 
nic intention,  we  discover,  of  necessity,  much  imprudence  and 
injustice;  the  impetuosity  of  his  desire  carries  him  away;  these 
are  rash  motions,  and,  if  fortune  do  not  very  much  assist,  of  very 
little  fruit.  Philosophy  directs  that,  in  the  revenge  of  injuries 
received,  we  should  strip  ourselves  of  choler;  not  that  the 
chastisement  should  be  less,  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  re- 
venge may  be  the  better  and  more  heavily  laid  on,  which,  if 

i»  "  Passionate  heat  carries  on  things  ill." — Statius,  "  Thcbaid,"  x.  704. 


OF   MANAGING   THE   WILL  47 

conceives,  will  be  by  this  impetuosity  hindered.  For  anger  not 
only  disturbs,  but,  of  itself,  also  wearies  the  arms  of  those  who 
chastise ;  this  fire  benumbs  and  wastes  their  force ;  as  in  precipi- 
tation, "  festinatio  tarda  est  "" — "  haste  trips  up  its  own  heels," 
fetters,  and  stops  itself ;  "  Ipsa  se  velocitas  implicat."  ^^  For 
example,  according  to  what  I  commonly  see,  avarice  has  no 
greater  impediment  than  itself;  the  more  bent  and  vigorous  it 
is,  the  less  it  rakes  together,  and  commonly  sooner  grows  rich 
when  disguised  in  a  visor  of  liberality. 

A  very  honest  gentleman,  and  a  particular  friend  of  mine, 
had  liked  to  have  cracked  his  brains  by  a  too  passionate  atten- 
tion and  affection  to  the  affairs  of  a  certain  prince,  his  master ; 
which  master  ^^  has  thus  set  himself  out  to  me ;  "  that  he  fore- 
sees the  weight  of  accidents  as  well  as  another,  but  that  in  those 
for  which  there  is  no  remedy  he  presently  resolves  upon  suffer- 
ing ;  in  others,  having  taken  all  the  necessary  precautions  which 
by  the  vivacity  of  his  understanding  he  can  presently  do,  he 
quietly  awaits  what  may  follow."  And,  in  truth,  I  have  accord- 
ingly seen  him  maintain  a  great  indifferency  and  liberty  of 
actions  and  serenity  of  countenance  in  very  great  and  difficult 
affairs :  I  find  him  much  greater,  and  of  greater  capacity  in  ad- 
verse than  in  prosperous  fortune :  his  defeats  are  to  him  more 
glorious  than  his  victories,  and  his  mourning  than  his  triumph. 

Do  but  consider,  that  even  in  vain  and  frivolous  actions,  as 
at  chess,  tennis,  and  the  like,  this  eager  and  ardent  engaging 
with  an  impetuous  desire  immediately  throws  the  mind  and 
members  into  indiscretion  and  disorder:  a  man  astounds  and 
hinders  himself ;  he  who  carries  himself  more  moderately  both 
toward  gain  and  loss  has  always  his  wits  about  him :  the  less 
peevish  and  passionate  he  is  at  play,  he  plays  much  more  ad- 
vantageously and  surely. 

As  to  the  rest,  we  hinder  the  mind's  seizure  and  hold,  in  giving 
it  so  many  things  to  seize  upon :  some  things  we  should  only 
offer  to  it ;  tie  it  to  others,  and  with  others  incorporate  it.  It 
can  feel  and  discern  all  things,  but  ought  to  feed  upon  nothing 
but  itself;  and  should  be  instructed  in  what  properly  concerns 
itself,  and  that  is  properly  of  its  own  having  and  substance. 
The  laws  of  nature  teach  us  what  justly  we  need.     After  the 

"Quintus  Curtius.  ix.  o,  12.  "  Probably  the  King  of  Navarre,  after* 

*■  Seneca,  "  Epistola  ad  Lucilium,"  44.       ward  Henry  IV. 


48  MONTAIGNE 

sages  have  told  us  that  no  one  is  indigent  according  to  nature, 
and  that  everyone  is  so  according  to  opinion/*  they  very  subtly 
distinguish  between  the  desires  that  proceed  from  her,  and  those 
that  proceed  from  the  disorder  of  our  own  fancy:  those  of 
which  we  can  see  the  end  are  hers ;  those  that  fly  before  us,  and 
of  which  we  can  see  no  end,  are  our  own :  the  poverty  of  goods 
is  easily  cured ;  the  poverty  of  the  soul  is  irreparable : 

*^Nam  si,  quod  satis  est  homini,  id  satis  esse  potesset 
Hoc  sat  erat ;  mine,  quum  hoc  non  est,  qui  credimus  porro 
Divitias  ullas  animum  mi  expiere potesse  f  "  ^^ 

Socrates,  seeing  a  great  quantity  of  riches,  jewels,  and  furni- 
ture carried  in  pomp  through  the  city :  *'  How  many  things  are 
there,"  said  he,  *'  that  I  do  not  want."  "  Metrodorus  lived  on 
twelve  ounces  a  day;  Epicurus  upon  less:  Metrocles  slept  in 
winter  abroad  among  sheep;  in  summer  in  the  cloisters  of 
churches ;  "  SuMcit  ad  id  natura,  quod  poscit."  ^^  Cleanthes 
lived  by  the  labor  of  his  own  hands,  and  boasted  that  Cleanthes, 
if  he  would,  could  yet  maintain  another  Cleanthes. 

If  that  which  nature  exactly  and  originally  requires  of  us 
for  the  conservation  of  our  being,  be  too  little  (as  in  truth 
what  it  is,  and  how  good  cheap  life  may  be  maintained,  cannot 
be  better  expressed  than  by  this  consideration  that  it  is  so  little 
that  by  its  littleness  it  escapes  the  gripe  and  shock  of  fortune), 
let  us  allow  ourselves  a  little  more ;  let  us  call  every  one  of  our 
habits  and  conditions,  nature ;  let  us  rate  and  treat  ourselves  by 
this  measure ;  let  us  stretch  our  appurtenances  and  accounts  so 
far;  for  so  far,  I  fancy,  we  have  some  excuse.  Custom  is  a 
second  nature,  and  no  less  powerful.  What  is  wanting  to  my 
custom,  I  reckon  is  wanting  to  me ;  and  I  should  be  almost  as 
well  content  that  they  took  away  my  life,  as  cut  me  short  in 
the  way  wherein  I  have  so  long  lived.  I  am  no  longer  in  condi- 
tion for  any  great  change,  nor  to  put  myself  into  a  new  and 
unwonted  course,  not  even  to  augmentation.  'Tis  past  the 
time  for  me  to  become  other  than  what  I  am ;  and  as  I  should 

'*  Seneca,_  "  Enisf ol.Tc  ad  Lucilium,"  i6.        tpnt?  " — Lucilius,  apud  Nonium  Marcel- 

**  "  For    if   what    is    for    man    onoii«h,         limim,  v.   sec.   q8. 
could   I)e  cnoiiRh,   it   w<tc   enough;     but  '•Cicero,  "  Tu>;c,   Oua-s.,"   v.   32. 

■  ince    it    is    not    so,    liow    can    I    believe  "  "  Nature    suffices    for    what     it    re- 

than  any  wealth  can  give  my  mind  con-        quires."— Seneca,    "  Epistolte   ad    Lucil* 

ium,"  90. 


OF   MANAGING  THE   WILL  49 

complain  of  any  great  good  hap  that  should  now  befall  me,  that 
it  came  not  in  time  to  be  enjoyed : 

**Quo  mihifortunaSy  si  non  conceditur  utif  "  " 

SO  should  I  complain  of  any  inward  acquisition.  It  were  al- 
most better  never,  than  so  late,  to  become  an  honest  man,  and 
well  fit  to  live,  when  one  has  no  longer  to  live.  I,  who  am  about 
to  make  my  exit  out  of  the  world,would  easily  resign  to  any 
newcomer,  who  should  desire  it,  all  the  prudence  I  am  now  ac- 
quiring in  the  world's  commerce ;  after  meat,  mustard.  I  have 
no  need  of  goods,  of  which  I  can  make  no  use ;  of  what  use  is 
knowledge  to  him  who  has  lost  his  head?  'Tis  an  injury  and 
unkindness  in  fortune  to  tender  us  presents  that  will  only  in- 
spire us  with  a  just  despite  that  we  had  them  not  in  their  due 
season.  Guide  me  no  more ;  I  can  no  longer  go.  Of  so  many 
parts  as  make  up  a  sufficiency,  patience  is  the  most  sufficient. 
Give  the  capacity  of  an  excellent  treble  to  a  chorister  who  has 
rotten  lungs,  and  eloquence  to  a  hermit,  exiled  into  the  deserts 
of  Arabia.  There  needs  no  art  to  help  a  fall ;  the  end  finds 
itself  of  itself  at  the  conclusion  of  every  affair.  My  world  is 
at  an  end,  my  form  expired;  I  am  totally  of  the  past,  and  am 
bound  to  authorize  it,  and  to  conform  my  outgoing  to  it.  I  will 
here  declare,  by  way  of  example,  that  the  pope's  late  ten  days' 
diminution  "  has  taken  me  so  aback  that  I  cannot  well  reconcile 
myself  to  it ;  I  belong  to  the  years  wherein  we  kept  another  kind 
of  account.  So  ancient  and  so  long  a  custom  challenges  my 
adherence  to  it,  so  that  I  am  constrained  to  be  somewhat  hereti- 
cal on  that  point :  incapable  of  any,  though  corrective,  innova- 
tion. My  imagination,  in  spite  of  my  teeth,  always  pushes  me 
ten  days  forward  or  backward,  and  is  ever  murmuring  in  my 
ears :  "  This  rule  concerns  those  who  are  to  begin  to  be."  If 
health  itself,  sweet  as  it  is,  returns  to  me  by  fits,  'tis  rather  to 
give  me  cause  of  regret  than  possession  of  it ;  I  have  no  place  left 
to  keep  it  in.  Time  leaves  me ;  without  which  nothing  can  be 
possessed.  Oh,  what  little  account  should  I  make  of  those  great 
elective  dignities  that  I  see  in  such  esteem  in  the  world,  that 
are  never  conferred  but  upon  men  who  are  taking  leave  of  it ; 

'* "  What   is   the    good   of  fortune   to  calendar,  and,  in  consequence,  in  France 

me  if  I  can't  use  it?  " — Horace,  "  Ep.,"  they  all  at  once  passed  from  the  ninth 

i.  s,  12.  to  the  twentieth  of  December. 

"  Gregory  XIII,  in  1582,  reformed  the 


5° 


MONTAIGNE 


wherein  they  do  not  so  much  regard  how  well  the  man  will  dis- 
charge his  trust,  as  how  short  his  administration  will  be :  from 
the  very  entry  they  look  at  the  exit.  In  short,  I  am  about  finish- 
ing this  man,  and  not  rebuilding  another.  By  long  use,  this 
form  is  in  me  turned  into  substance,  and  fortune  into  nature. 

I  say,  therefore,  that  every  one  of  us  feeble  creatures  is  ex- 
cusable in  thinking  that  to  be  his  own  which  is  comprised  under 
this  measure;  but  withal,  beyond  these  limits,  'tis  nothing  but 
confusion;  'tis  the  largest  extent  we  can  grant  to  our  own 
claims.  The  more  we  amplify  our  need  and  our  possession,  so 
much  the  more  do  we  expose  ourselves  to  the  blows  and  ad- 
versities of  fortune.^^  The  career  of  our  desires  ought  to  be 
circumscribed  and  restrained  to  a  short  limit  of  near  and  con- 
tiguous commodities;  and  their  course  ought,  moreover,  to  be 
performed  not  in  a  right  line  that  ends  elsewhere,  but  in  a 
circle,  of  which  the  two  points,  by  a  short  wheel,  meet  and 
terminate  in  ourselves.  Actions  that  are  carried  on  without 
this  reflection — a  near  and  essential  reflection,  I  mean — such 
as  those  of  ambitious  and  avaricious  men,  and  so  many  more  as 
run  point-blank,  and  whose  career  always  carries  them  before 
themselves,  such  actions,  I  say,  are  erroneous  and  sickly. 

Most  of  our  business  is  farce :  "  Mimdus  universus  exercet 
histrionam."  ^^  We  must  play  our  part  properly,  but  withal  as 
the  part  of  a  borrowed  personage ;  we  must  not  make  real  es- 
sence of  a  mask  and  outward  appearance ;  nor  of  a  strange  per- 
son, our  own;  we  cannot  distinguish  the  skin  from  the  shirt: 
'tis  enough  to  meal  the  face,  without  mealing  the  breast.  I 
see  some  who  transform  and  transubstantiate  themselves  into  as 
many  new  shapes  and  new  beings  as  they  undertake  new  employ- 
ments ;  and  who  strut  and  fume  even  to  the  heart  and  liver,  and 
carry  their  state  along  with  them  even  in  their  dressing-gowns. 
I  cannot  make  them  distinguish  the  salutations  made  to  them- 
selves from  those  made  to  their  commission,  their  train,  or  their 
mule:  "  Tantum  se  fortunes  permittiint,  ctiam  ut  naturam 
dediscant."  ^'  They  swell  and  puff  up  their  souls,  and  their 
natural  way  of  speaking,  according  to  the  height  of  their  magis- 
terial place.     The  mayor  of  Bordeaux  and  Montaigne  have  ever 

■■  "  L'homme    tient    par    ses    voeux    h  "  Petronius  Arbiter,  iii.  8. 

mille  choiics:    plui  il    avijrmente    »es  at-  *=  "  They  so  tnucli  give  themselves  up 

tachements,      plus      il  .  multiplie      ses  to  fortune,  as  even  to  forget  their  nat" 

pcinc5,">— Rousseau,    "  Emilc,"    liv.    v.  ure." — Quintus  Curtius,  ii.  2. 


OF   MANAGING    THE    WILL  51 

been  two  by  very  manifest  separation.  Because  one  is  an  ad- 
vocate or  a  financier,  he  must  not  ignore  the  knavery  there  is  in 
such  calhngs ;  an  honest  man  is  not  accountable  for  the  vice  or 
absurdity  of  his  employment,  and  ought  not  on  that  account 
refuse  to  take  the  calling  upon  him  :  'tis  the  usage  of  his  country, 
and  then  there  is  money  to  be  got  by  it ;  a  man  must  live  by  the 
world,  and  make  his  best  of  it,  such  as  it  is.  But  the  judgment 
of  an  emperor  ought  to  be  above  his  empire,  and  see  and  con- 
sider it  as  a  foreign  accident;  and  he  ought  to  know  how  to 
enjoy  himself  apart  from  it,  and  to  communicate  himself  as 
James  and  Peter,  to  himself,  at  all  events. 

I  cannot  engage  myself  so  deep  and  so  entire ;  when  my  will 
gives  me  to  anything,  'tis  not  with  so  violent  an  obligation  that 
my  judgment  is  infected  with  it.  In  the  present  broils  of  this 
kingdom  my  own  interest  has  not  made  me  blind  to  the  laudable 
qualities  of  our  adversaries,  nor  to  those  that  are  reproachable 
in  those  of  men  of  our  party.  Others  adore  all  of  their  own 
side ;  for  my  part,  I  do  not  so  much  as  excuse  most  things  in 
those  of  mine :  a  good  work  has  never  the  worse  grace  with  me 
for  being  made  against  me.  The  knot  of  the  controversy  ex- 
cepted, I  have  always  kept  myself  in  equanimity  and  pure  indif- 
ference: "  Neque  extra  necessitates  velli,  prcuciputiin  odium 
gero ;"  ^^  for  which  I  am  pleased  with  myself;  and  the  more, 
because  I  see  others  commonly  fail  in  the  contrary  direction. 
Such  as  extend  their  anger  and  hatred  beyond  the  dispute  in 
question,  as  most  men  do,  show  that  they  spring  from  some 
other  occasion  and  private  cause ;  like  one,  who,  being  cured 
of  an  ulcer,  has  yet  a  fever  remaining,  by  which  it  appears  that 
the  ulcer  had  another  more  concealed  beginning.  The  reason 
is  that  they  are  not  concerned  in  the  common  cause ;  because  it 
is  wounding  to  the  state  and  general  interest ;  but  are  only  net- 
tled by  reason  of  their  particular  concern.  This  is  why  they 
are  so  especially  animated,  and  to  a  degree  so  far  beyond  justice 
and  public  reason :  "  Non  tarn  omnia  universi,  qnam  ea  qnce  ad 
qucmqnc  pertinent,  singuli  carpehant."  -*  I  would  have  the 
advantage  on  our  side,  but  if  it  be  not,  I  shall  not  run  mad.  I 
am  heartily  for  the  right  party ;  but  I  do  not  want  to  be  taken 

2* "  And   have   no   express   hatred   be-        against    things    in    general,    as    against 
yond  tVie  necessity  of  war."  those   that   particularly   concerned    him- 

**  "  Everyone  was  not  so  much  angry        self."— Livy,  xxxiv.  36. 


52  MONTAIGNE 

notice  of  as  an  especial  enemy  to  others,  and  beyond  the  general 
quarrel.  I  am  a  mortal  enemy  to  this  vicious  form  of  censure : 
"  He  is  of  the  League,  because  he  admires  the  Duke  of  Guise ; 
he  is  astonished  at  the  King  of  Navarre's  energy,  and  therefore 
he  is  a  Huguenot ;  he  finds  such  and  such  faults  in  the  King's 
conduct,  he  is  therefore  seditious  in  his  heart;"  and  I  would 
not  grant  to  the  magistrate  himself  that  he  did  well  in  con- 
demning a  book  because  it  had  placed  a  heretic  ^^  among  the 
best  poets  of  the  time.  Shall  we  not  dare  to  say  of  a  thief,  that 
he  has  a  handsome  leg?  If  a  woman  be  a  strumpet,  must  it 
needs  follow  that  she  has  a  stinking  breath  ?  Did  they  in  the 
wisest  ages  revoke  the  proud  title  of  Capitolinus  they  had  before 
conferred  on  Marcus  Manlius,  as  conservator  of  religion  and 
the  public  liberty,  and  stifle  the  memory  of  his  liberality,  his 
feats  of  arms,  and  military  recompenses  granted  to  his  valor, 
because  he  afterward  aspired  to  the  sovereignty,  to  the  preju- 
dice of  the  laws  of  his  country?  If  we  take  a  hatred  against 
an  advocate,  he  will  not  be  allowed,  the  next  day,  to  be  eloquent. 
I  have  elsewhere  spoken  of  the  zeal  that  pushed  on  worthy  men 
to  the  like  faults.  For  my  part,  I  can  say,  "  Such  a  one  does 
this  thing  ill,  and  another  thing  virtuously  and  well."  So  in 
the  prognostics,  or  sinister  events  of  affairs,  they  would  have 
everyone  in  his  party  blind  or  a  blockhead,  and  that  our  per- 
suasion and  judgment  should  subserve  not  truth,  but  to  the 
project  of  our  desires.  I  should  rather  incline  toward  the  other 
extreme ;  so  much  I  fear  being  suborned  by  my  desire ;  to  which 
may  be  added  that  I  am  a  little  tenderly  distrustful  of  things 
that  I  wish. 

I  have  in  my  time  seen  wonders  in  the  indiscreet  and  prodi- 
gious facility  of  people  in  suffering  their  hopes  and  belief  to  be 
led  and  governed,  which  way  has  best  pleased  and  served  their 
leaders,  despite  a  hundred  mistakes  one  upon  another,  despite 
mere  dreams  and  phantasms.  I  no  more  wonder  at  those  who 
have  been  blinded  and  seduced  by  the  fooleries  of  Apollonius 
and  Mahomet.  Their  sense  and  understanding  are  absolutely 
taken  away  by  their  passion  ;  their  discretion  has  no  more  any 
other  choice  than  that  which  smiles  upon  them,  and  encourages 
their  cause.  I  had  principally  observed  this  in  the  beginning 
of  our  intestine  distempers ;  that  other,  which  has  sprung  up 

••  Theodore  de  Bcza. 


OF   MANAGING  THE   WILL  53 

since,  in  imitating,  has  surpassed  it;  by  which  I  am  satisfied 
that  it  is  a  quahty  inseparable  from  popular  errors;  after  the 
first  that  rolls,  opinions  drive  on  one  another  like  waves  with 
the  wind :  a  man  is  not  a  member  of  the  body,  if  it  be  in  his 
power  to  forsake  it,  and  if  he  do  not  roll  the  common  way. 
But,  doubtless,  they  wrong  the  just  side,  when  they  go  about  to 
assist  it  with  fraud ;  I  have  ever  been  against  that  practice : 
'tis  only  fit  to  work  upon  weak  heads ;  for  the  sound,  there  are 
surer  and  more  honest  ways  to  keep  up  their  courage  and  to 
excuse  adverse  accidents. 

Heaven  never  saw  a  greater  animosity  than  that  between 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  nor  ever  shall ;  and  yet  I  observe,  methinks, 
in  those  brave  souls,  a  great  moderation  toward  one  another; 
it  was  a  jealousy  of  honor  and  command  which  did  not  transport 
them  to  a  furious  and  indiscreet  hatred,  and  was  without  malig- 
nity and  detraction ;  in  their  hottest  exploits  upon  one  another, 
I  discover  some  remains  of  respect  and  good-will ;  and  am  there- 
fore of  opinion  that,  had  it  been  possible,  each  of  them  would 
rather  have  done  his  business  without  the  ruin  of  the  other 
than  with  it.  Take  notice  how  much  otherwise  matters  went 
with  Marius  and  Sylla. 

We  must  not  precipitate  ourselves  so  headlong  after  our 
affections  and  interests.  As,  when  I  was  young,  I  opposed 
myself  to  the  progress  of  love  which  I  perceived  to  advance 
too  fast  upon  me,  and  had  a  care  lest  it  should  at  last  become 
so  pleasing  as  to  force,  captivate,  and  wholly  reduce  me  to  its 
mercy;  so  I  do  the  same  upon  all  other  occasions  where  my 
will  is  running  on  with  too  warm  an  appetite.  I  lean  opposite 
to  the  side  it  inclines  to,  as  I  find  it  going  to  plunge  and  make 
itself  drunk  with  its  own  wine ;  I  evade  nourishing  its  pleasure 
so  far,  that  I  cannot  recover  it  without  infinite  loss.  Souls 
that,  through  their  own  stupidity,  only  discern  things  by  halves, 
have  this  happiness  that  they  smart  less  with  hurtful  things; 
'tis  a  spiritual  leprosy  that  has  some  show  of  health,  and  such 
a  health  as  philosophy  does  not  altogether  contemn,  but  yet  we 
have  no  reason  to  call  it  wisdom,  as  we  often  do.  And  after 
this  manner  someone  anciently  mocked  Diogenes,  who,  in  the 
depth  of  winter  and  stark  naked,  went  hugging  an  image  of 
snow  for  a  trial  of  his  endurance ;  the  other  seeing  him  in  this 
position,  "  Art  thou  now  very  cold  ?"  said  he.    "  Not  at  all," 


54  MONTAIGNE 

replied  Diogenes.  "  Why  then,"  said  the  other,  "  what  dif- 
ficult and  exemplary  thing  dost  thou  think  thou  doest  in  em- 
bracing that  snow  ?"  ^^  To  take  a  true  measure  of  constancy, 
one  must  necessarily  know  what  the  suffering  is. 

But  souls  that  are  to  meet  with  adverse  events  and  the  in- 
juries of  fortune,  in  their  depth  and  sharpness,  that  are  to 
weigh  and  taste  them  according  to  their  natural  weight  and 
bitterness,  let  such  show  their  skill  in  avoiding  the  causes  and 
diverting  the  blow.  What  did  King  Cotys  do?^^  He  paid 
liberally  for  the  rich  and  beautiful  vessel  that  had  been  presented 
to  him,  but,  seeing  it  was  exceedingly  brittle,  he  immediately 
broke  it,  betimes  to  prevent  so  easy  a  matter  of  displeasure 
against  his  servants.  In  like  manner,  I  have  willingly  avoided 
all  confusion  in  my  affairs,  and  never  coveted  to  have  my  estate 
contiguous  to  those  of  my  relations,  and  such  with  whom  I 
coveted  a  strict  friendship;  for  thence  matter  of  unkindness 
and  falling  out  often  proceed.  I  formerly  loved  the  hazardous 
games  of  cards  and  dice ;  but  have  long  since  left  them  off,  only 
for  this  reason,  that,  with  whatever  good  air  I  carried  my  losses, 
I  could  not  help  feeling  vexed  within.  A  man  of  honor,  who 
ought  to  be  touchingly  sensible  of  the  lie  or  of  an  insult,  and 
who  is  not  to  take  a  scurvy  excuse  for  satisfaction,  should  avoid 
occasions  of  dispute.  I  shun  melancholy,  crabbed  men,  as  I 
would  the  plague ;  and  in  matters  I  cannot  talk  of  without  emo- 
tion and  concern,  I  never  meddle,  if  not  compelled  by  my  duty: 
"Melius  non  incipient,  quam  dcsincnt."  ~^  The  surest  way, 
therefore,  is  to  prepare  one's  self  beforehand  for  occasions. 

I  know  very  well  that  some  wise  men  have  taken  another 
way,  and  have  not  feared  to  grapple  and  engage  to  the  utmost 
upon  several  subjects ;  these  are  confident  of  their  own  strength, 
under  which  they  protect  themselves  in  all  ill  successes,  making 
their  patience  wrestle  and  contend  with  disaster: 

"  Vflut  rupes   vastum  qucr  prodit  in  crquory 
Obvia  ventoT  um  furiis,  expostaque  potito, 
Vim  cunciam  atque  minus  per/at  ccelique  marisquc  ; 
Ipsa  I'mmofa  manens."  ^ 

*•  Plutarch,  "  Notable  Rayinps  of  the  bcRun,  than  to  have  to  desist."— Seneca, 

Lacedaemonians":     Diogenes    Laertius,  "  Ejiistolx  ad  Liiciliuin,"  72. 

vi.   2%.  ™  "  As  a  rock  standing  among  the  vast 

'■"  I'liitarch,    "  Notable   Sayings  of   the  billows,    exposed    to    the    furious    winds 

Ancitiu  Kings":    Cotys.  and  the  raging  flood,  remains  unmoved, 

"•"A  man  had  better  never  to  have  and    defies    all    the    force    of    seas   and 

skies." — Vergil,  "  Mnt'iA,"  x.  693. 


OF   MANAGING  THE   WILL  55 

Let  us  not  attempt  these  examples ;  we  shall  never  come  up  to 
them.  They  set  themselves  resolutely,  and  without  agitation, 
to  behold  the  ruin  of  their  country,  which  possessed  and  com- 
manded all  their  will ;  this  is  too  much  and  too  hard  a  task  for 
our  commoner  souls.  Cato  gave  up  the  noblest  life  that  ever 
was  upon  this  account;  we  meaner  spirits  must  fly  from  the 
storm  as  far  as  we  can ;  we  must  provide  for  sentiment,  and  not 
for  patience,  and  evade  the  blows  we  cannot  meet.  Zeno,  see- 
ing Chremonides,  a  young  man  whom  he  loved,  draw  near  to  sit 
down  by  him,  suddenly  started  up;  and  Cleanthes  demanding 
of  him  the  reason  why  he  did  so,  "  I  hear,"  said  he,  "  that  physi- 
cians especially  order  repose,  and  forbid  emotion  in  all 
tumors."  ^°  Socrates  does  not  say,  "  Do  not  surrender  to  the 
charms  of  beauty ;  stand  your  ground,  and  do  your  utmost  to 
oppose  it."  "  Fly  it,"  says  he ;  "  shun  the  fight  and  encounter 
of  it,  as  of  a  powerful  poison  that  darts  and  wounds  at  a  dis- 
tance." ^^  And  his  good  disciple,^^  feigning  or  reciting,  but, 
in  my  opinion,  rather  reciting  than  feigning  the  rare  perfections 
of  the  great  Cyrus,  makes  him  distrustful  of  his  own  strength  to 
resist  the  charms  of  the  divine  beauty  of  that  illustrious  Panthea, 
his  captive,  and  committing  the  visiting  and  keeping  her  to 
another,  who  could  not  have  so  much  liberty  as  himself.  And 
the  Holy  Ghost  in  like  manner :  "  Ne  nos  htducas  in  tentor 
tionem"  ^^  We  do  not  pray  that  our  reason  may  not  be  com- 
bated and  overcome  by  concupiscence,  but  that  it  should  not  be 
so  much  as  tried  by  it ;  that  we  should  not  be  brought  into  a 
state  wherein  we  are  so  much  as  to  suffer  the  approaches,  so- 
licitations, and  temptations  of  sin ;  and  we  beg  of  Almighty 
God  to  keep  our  consciences  quiet,  fully  and  perfectly  delivered 
from  all  commerce  of  evil. 

Such  as  say  that  they  have  reason  for  their  revenging  pas- 
sion, or  any  other  sort  of  troublesome  agitation  of  mind,  often 
say  true,  as  things  now  are,  but  not  as  they  were :  they  speak 
to  us  when  the  causes  of  their  error  are  by  themselves  nourished 
and  advanced ;  but  look  backward — recall  these  causes  to  their 
beginning — and  there  you  will  put  them  to  a  nonplus.  Will 
they  have  their  faults  less,  for  being  of  longer  continuance; 
and  that  of  an  unjust  beginning,  the  sequel  can  be  just  ?     Who- 

«o  Diosrenes  Laertius,  vii.  17.  "^  Idem,   "  Cyropredia,"   i.   3,   3. 

"  Xenophon,  "  Mem.  of  Socrates,"  i.  *»  "  Lead   us   not   into   temptation.  — 

I,  13.  St.  Matthew,  vi.  13. 


56  MONTAIGNE 

ever  shall  desire  the  good  of  his  country,  as  I  do,  without  fret- 
ting or  pining  himself,  will  be  troubled,  but  will  not  swoon  to 
see  it  threatening  either  its  own  ruin,  or  a  no  less  ruinous  con- 
tinuance ;  poor  vessel,  that  the  waves,  the  winds,  and  the  pilot 
toss  and  steer  to  so  contrary  designs ! 

"/«  tarn  diver sa,  magister, 
Ventus,  et  utida,  trahunt."  ^ 

He  who  does  not  gape  after  the  favor  of  princes,  as  after  a 
thing  he  cannot  live  without,  does  not  much  concern  himself  at 
the  coldness  of  their  reception  and  countenance,  nor  at  the 
inconstancy  of  their  wills.  He  who  does  not  brood  over  his  chil- 
dren or  his  honors,  with  a  slavish  propension,  ceases  not  to 
live  commodiously  enough  after  their  loss.  He  who  does  good 
principally  for  his  own  satisfaction,  will  not  be  much  troubled 
to  see  men  judge  of  his  actions  contrary  to  his  merit.  A  quarter 
of  an  ounce  of  patience  will  provide  sufficiently  against  such 
inconveniences.  I  find  ease  in  this  receipt,  redeeming  myself 
in  the  beginning  as  cheap  as  I  can ;  and  find  that  by  this  means 
I  have  escaped  much  trouble  and  many  difficulties.  With  very 
little  ado  I  stop  the  first  sally  of  my  emotions,  and  leave  the 
subject  that  begins  to  be  troublesome,  before  it  transports  me. 
He  who  stops  not  the  start,  will  never  be  able  to  stop  the  career ; 
he,  who  cannot  keep  them  out,  will  never  get  them  out  when 
they  are  once  got  in ;  and  he  who  cannot  crush  them  at  the  be- 
ginning, will  never  do  it  after ;  nor  ever  keep  himself  from  fall- 
ing, if  he  cannot  recover  himself  when  he  first  begins  to  totter: 
"  Etenim  ipsa'  se  impcllunt;  iihi  semel  a  ratione  discessum  est; 
ipsaque  sibi  imhecillitas  indulget,  in  altumqiie  provehitur  im- 
prudens,  nee  rcperit  locum  consistendi."  ^^  I  am  betimes  sensi- 
ble of  the  little  breezes  that  begin  to  sing  and  whistle  in  the 
shrouds,  the  fore-runners  of  the  storm : 

^^  Ceu  Jlamina  prima 
Quum  deprensa  freviunt  sylvis,  et  cceca  volutant 
Murmur  a,  ventures  nautis  prodentia  ventos"^ 

**■  Buchanan.    The  translation  is  in  the  to  an  anchor."— Cicero,  "  Tusc.  Quaes.," 

previous  passage.  iv.    iS. 

**  "  I'nr  they  throw  themselves   head-  *•  "As  when  the  risinR  winds,  checked 

loHR  wlirn  once  they  loose  their  reason,  by  woods,  send  out  dull   murmurs,  por- 

and  frailty  so  far  indulges  itself,  that  it  tending    a     storm     to    the     mariaer.''-^ 

is  unawares  carried  out   into  the  deep,  "  .^ncid,"  x.  97. 
and  can  find  no  port  wherein  to  come 


OF   MANAGING  THE  WILL 


57 


How  often  have  I  done  myself  a  manifest  injustice,  to  avoid 
the  hazard  of  having  yet  a  worse  done  me  by  the  judges,  after 
an  age  of  vexations,  dirty  and  vile  practices,  more  enemies  to 
my  nature  than  fire  or  the  rack?  "  Convenit  a  litibus,  quantum 
licet,  et  nescio  an  paulo  plus  etiam,  quam  licet,  abhorrentem  esse: 
est  enim  non  modo  liberale,  paululurn  nonnunquam  de  suo  jure 
decedere,  sed  inter dum  etiam  fructuosum."  ^^  Were  we  wise, 
we  ought  to  rejoice  and  boast,  as  I  one  day  heard  a  young  gentle- 
man of  a  good  family  very  innocently  do,  that  his  mother  had 
lost  her  cause,  as  if  it  had  been  a  cough,  a  fever,  or  something 
very  troublesome  to  keep.  Even  the  favors  that  fortune  might 
have  given  me  through  relationship  or  acquaintance  with  those 
who  have  sovereign  authority  in  those  affairs,  I  have  very  con- 
scientiously and  very  carefully  avoided  employing  them  to  the 
prejudice  of  others,  and  of  advancing  my  pretensions  above  their 
true  right.  In  fine,  I  have  so  much  prevailed  by  my  endeavors 
(and  happily  I  may  say  it)  that  I  am  to  this  day  a  virgin  from 
all  suits  in  law;  though  I  have  had  very  fair  oflfers  made  me, 
and  with  very  just  title  would  I  have  hearkened  to  them ;  and 
a  virgin  from  quarrels,  too.  I  have  almost  passed  over  a  long 
life  without  any  offence  of  moment,  either  active  or  passive,  or 
without  ever  hearing  a  worse  word  than  my  own  name :  a  rare 
favor  of  heaven. 

Our  greatest  agitations  have  ridiculous  springs  and  causes : 
what  ruin  did  our  last  Duke  of  Burgundy  run  into  about  a 
cartload  of  sheepskins  ?  ^^  And  was  not  the  graving  of  a  seal 
the  first  and  principal  cause  of  the  greatest  commotion  that 
this  machine  of  the  world  ever  underwent  ?  ^*  for  Pompey  and 
Caesar  were  but  the  offsets  and  continuation  of  the  two  others : 
and  I  have  in  my  time  seen  the  wisest  heads  in  this  kingdom 
assembled  with  great  ceremony,  and  at  the  public  expense, 
about  treaties  and  agreements,  of  which  the  true  decision,  in 
the  mean  time,  absolutely  depended  upon  the  ladies'  cabinet 
council,  and  the  inclination  of  some  foolish  woman. 

The  poets  very  well  understood  this,  when  they  put  all 
Greece  and  Asia  to  fire  and  sword  about  an  apple.     Inquire 

•'  "  A  man  should  be  an  enemy  to  all  from  one's  right."— Cicero,  "  De  Offic.," 

lawsuits    as    much    as    he    may,    and    I  ii.  18. 

know  not  whether  not  something  more;  '•  "  Mem.  de  Comines,"  lib.  v.  c.  i. 

for  'tis  not  only  liberal,  but   sometimes  ^  The   civil   war  between   Marius  and 

also  advantageous,  too,  a  little  to  recede  Sylla;    see  Plutarch's  "  Life  of  Marius,^ 


58  MONTAIGNE 

why  that  man  hazards  his  Hfe  and  honor  upon  the  fortune  of 
his  rapier  and  dagger ;  let  him  acquaint  you  with  the  occasion 
of  the  quarrel ;  he  cannot  do  it  without  blushing ;  'tis  so  idle 
and  frivolous. 

A  little  thing  will  engage  you  in  it;  but  being  once  em- 
barked, all  the  cords  draw ;  great  provisions  are  then  required, 
more  hard  and  more  important.  How  much  easier  is  it  not 
to  enter  in,  than  it  is  to  get  out?  Now  we  should  proceed 
contrary  to  the  reed,  which,  at  its  first  springing  produces  a 
long  and  straight  shoot,  but  afterward,  as  if  tired  and  out  of 
breath,  it  runs  into  thick  and  frequent  joints  and  knots,  as  so 
many  pauses  which  demonstrate  that  it  has  no  more  its  first 
vigor  and  firmness;  'twere  better  to  begin  gently  and  coldly, 
and  to  keep  one's  breath  and  vigorous  efforts  for  the  height 
and  stress  of  the  business.  We  guide  affairs  in  their  begin- 
nings, and  have  them  in  our  own  power ;  but  afterward,  when 
they  are  once  at  work,  'tis  they  that  guide  and  govern  us,  and 
we  are  to  follow  them. 

Yet  do  I  not  mean  to  say  that  this  counsel  has  discharged 
me  of  all  difficulty,  and  that  I  have  not  often  had  enough  to 
do  to  curb  and  restrain  my  passions ;  they  are  not  always  to  be 
governed  according  to  the  measure  of  occasions,  and  often 
have  their  entries  very  sharp  and  violent.  But  still  good  fruit 
and  profit  may  thence  be  reaped ;  except  for  those  who  in  well- 
doing are  not  satisfied  with  any  benefit,  if  reputation  be  want- 
ing ;  for,  in  truth,  such  an  effect  is  not  valued  but  by  everyone  to 
himself;  you  are  better  contented,  but  not  more  esteemed, 
seeing  you  reformed  yourself  before  you  got  into  the  whirl  of 
the  dance,  or  that  the  provocative  matter  was  in  sight.  Yet 
not  in  this  only,  but  in  all  other  duties  of  life  also,  the  way  of 
those  who  aim  at  honor  is  very  different  from  that  they  pro- 
ceed by,  who  propose  to  themselves  order  and  reason.  I  find 
some,  who  rashly  and  furiously  rush  into  the  lists,  and  cool 
in  the  course.  As  Plutarch  says,  that  those  who,  through  false 
shame,  are  soft  and  facile  to  grant  whatever  is  desired  of  them, 
are  afterward  as  facile  to  break  their  word  and  to  recant ;  so 
he  who  enters  lightly  into  a  quarrel  is  apt  to  go  as  lightly  out 
of  it.  The  same  difficulty  that  keeps  me  from  entering  into  it, 
would,  when  once  hot  and  engaged  in  quarrel,  incite  me  to 
maintain  it  with   great  obstinacy  and   resolution.     Tis  the 


OF  MANAGING  THE  WILL  59 

tyranny  of  custom ;  when  a  man  is  once  engaged,  he  must  go 
through  with  it,  or  die.  "  Undertake  coldly,"  said  Bias,  "  but 
pursue  with  ardor."  *"  For  want  of  prudence,  men  fall  into 
want  of  courage,  which  is  still  more  intolerable. 

Most  accommodations  of  the  quarrels  of  these  days  of  ours 
are  shameful  and  false ;  we  only  seek  to  save  appearances,  and 
in  the  mean  time  betray  and  disavow  our  true  intentions;  we 
salve  over  the  fact.  We  know  very  well  how  we  said  the  thing, 
and  in  what  sense  we  spoke  it,  and  the  company  know  it,  and 
our  friends  whom  we  have  wished  to  make  sensible  of  our  ad- 
vantage, understand  it  well  enough  too :  'tis  at  the  expense  of 
our  frankness  and  of  the  honor  of  our  courage,  that  we  disown 
our  thoughts,  and  seek  refuge  in  falsities,  to  make  matters  up. 
We  give  ourselves  the  lie,  to  excuse  the  lie  we  have  given  to 
another.  You  are  not  to  consider  if  your  word  or  action  may 
admit  of  another  interpretation ;  'tis  your  own  true  and  sincere 
interpretation,  your  real  meaning  in  what  you  said  or  did,  that 
you  are  thenceforward  to  maintain,  whatever  it  cost  you.  Men 
speak  to  your  virtue  and  conscience,  which  are  not  things  to 
be  put  under  a  mask ;  let  us  leave  these  pitiful  ways  and  ex- 
pedients to  the  jugglers  of  the  law.  The  excuses  and  repara- 
tions that  I  see  every  day  made  and  given  to  repair  indiscretion, 
seem  to  me  more  scandalous  than  the  indiscretion  itself.  It 
were  better  to  afifront  your  adversary  a  second  time,  than  to 
ofifend  yourself  by  giving  him  so  unmanly  a  satisfaction.  You 
have  braved  him  in  your  heat  and  anger,  and  you  would  flatter 
and  appease  him  in  your  cooler  and  better  sense ;  and  by  that 
means  lay  yourself  lower  and  at  his  feet,  whom  before  you  pre- 
tended to  overtop.  I  do  not  find  anything  a  gentleman  cart 
say  so  vicious  in  him,  as  unsaying  what  he  has  said  is  infamous, 
when  to  unsay  it  is  authoritatively  extracted  from  him ;  foras- 
much as  obstinacy  is  more  excusable  in  a  man  of  honor  than 
pusillanimity.  Passions  are  as  easy  for  me  to  evade,  as  they 
are  hard  for  me  to  moderate:  " Exscindnntiir  faciUus  animo, 
qnam  teinperantur."  *^  He,  who  cannot  attain  the  noble  stoical 
impassibility,  let  him  secure  himself  in  the  bosom  of  this  popular 
stolidity  of  mine ;  what  they  performed  by  virtue,  I  inure  my- 
self to  do  by  temperament.     The  middle  region  harbors  storms 

*"  Dioerenes  Laertius,   i.   87. 

"  "  They  are  more  easily  to  be  eradicated  than  Boverned." 


6o  MONTAIGNE 

and  tempests ;  the  two  extremes,  of  philosophers  and  peasants, 
concur  in  tranquillity  and  happiness : 

"  Felix  qui  potuit  reruni  cog  nose  ere  causas, 
Atque  mettis  otnnes  et  inexorabile  fatuni 
Subjecit  pedibits,  strepitumqiie  Acherontis  avari ! 
Fortunatus  et  ille  Deos  qui  novit  agrestes, 
Panaque,  Sylvanumque  senem,  Nymphasque  sorores!"^ 

The  births  of  all  things  are  weak  and  tender ;  and  therefore  we 
should  have  our  eyes  intent  on  beginnings ;  for  as  when,  in  its 
infancy,  the  danger  is  not  perceived,  so  when  it  is  grown  up, 
the  remedy  is  as  little  to  be  found.  I  had  every  day  encountered 
a  million  of  crosses,  harder  to  digest  in  the  progress  of  ambi- 
tion, than  it  has  been  hard  for  me  to  curb  the  natural  propension 
that  inclined  me  to  it : 

'  *  Jure  perhorrjt  i 
Late  conspicuum  toller e  verticem.*^^ 

All  public  actions  are  subject  to  various  and  uncertain  interpre- 
tations; for  too  many  heads  judge  of  them.  Some  say  of  this 
civic  employment  of  mine  **  (and  I  am  willing  to  say  a  word  or 
two  about  it,  not  that  it  is  worth  so  much,  but  to  give  an  account 
of  my  manners  in  such  things),  that  I  have  behaved  myself  in 
it  as  a  man  not  sufficiently  easy  to  be  moved,  and  with  a  languish- 
ing affection ;  and  they  have  some  color  for  what  they  say.  I 
endeavored  to  keep  my  mind  and  my  thoughts  in  repose,  "  Cum 
semper  natiira,  turn  etiam  cctate  jam  quietus;"  ^^  and  if  they 
sometimes  lash  out  upon  some  rude  and  sensible  impression,  'tis 
in  truth  without  my  advice.  Yet  from  this  natural  heaviness 
of  mine,  men  ought  not  to  conclude  a  total  inability  in  me  (for 
want  of  care  and  want  of  sense  are  two  very  different  things), 
and  much  less  any  unkindness  or  ingratitude  toward  that  cor- 
poration, who  employed  the  utmOvSt  means  they  had  in  their 
power  to  oblige  me,  both  before  they  knew  me  and  after ;  and 
they  did  much  more  for  me  in  choosing  me  anew,  than  in  con- 


*• "  I  ever  ?ust!y  feared  to   raise   mjr 
head   too   high."— Horace,   "  Odes,"   ii>. 


** "  Happy  is  he  who   has  discovered 
the  causes  of  things,  and  tramples  under 
foot   all   fear,   all   concern,   as   to   incxor-         16,    18. 
able  fate,  or  as  to  the  roarinf?  of  precdy  *•  The  Bordeaux  mayoralty. 

Acheron:     he    is   blest    who    knows   the  ♦* "  As  being  always  quiet  by  natufc, 

country   gods,    Pan,    old    Sylvanus,    and        so  also  now  by  age.  — Cicero,  "  Dc  Pfr 
the     sister     nymphs." — Vergil,     "  Gcor-        tit.  Consul.,"  c.  a. 
gics,"  ii.  490. 


OF   MANAGING   THE   WILL  fli 

ferring  that  honor  upon  me  at  first.  I  wish  them  all  imagina- 
ble good ;  and  assuredly  had  occasion  been,  there  is  nothing  I 
would  have  spared  for  their  service ;  I  did  for  them,  as  I  would 
have  done  for  myself.  'Tis  a  good,  warlike,  and  generous  peo- 
ple, but  capable  of  obedience  and  discipline,  and  of  whom  the 
best  use  may  be  made,  if  well  guided.  They  say  also  that  my 
administration  passed  over  without  leaving  any  mark  or  trace. 
Good !  They  moreover  accuse  my  cessation  in  a  time  when 
everybody  almost  was  convicted  of  doing  too  much.  I  am 
impatient  to  be  doing  where  my  will  spurs  me  on ;  but  this  itself 
is  an  enemy  to  perseverance.  Let  him  who  will  make  use  of 
me  according  to  my  own  way,  employ  me  in  affairs  where  vigor 
and  liberty  are  required,  where  a  direct,  short,  and,  moreover, 
a  hazardous  conduct  is  necessary;  I  may  do  something;  but 
if  it  must  be  long,  subtle,  laborious,  artificial,  and  intricate,  he 
had  better  call  in  somebody  else.  All  important  offices  are  not 
necessarily  difficult :  I  came  prepared  to  do  somewhat  rougher 
work,  had  there  been  great  occasion ;  for  it  is  in  my  power  to  do 
something  more  than  I  do,  or  than  I  love  to  do.  I  did  not,  to 
my  knowledge,  omit  anything  that  my  duty  really  required.  I 
easily  forgot  those  offices  that  ambition  mixes  with  duty  and 
palliates  with  its  title ;  these  are  they  that,  for  the  most  part, 
fill  the  eyes  and  ears,  and  give  men  the  most  satisfaction;  not 
the  thing  but  the  appearance  contents  them;  if  they  hear  no 
noise,  they  think  men  sleep.  My  humor  is  no  friend  to  tumult ; 
I  could  appease  a  commotion  without  commotion  and  chastise  a 
disorder  without  being  myself  disorderly ;  if  I  stand  in  need  of 
anger  and  inflammation,  I  borrow  it,  and  put  it  on.  My  man- 
ners are  languid,  rather  faint  than  sharp.  I  do  not  condemn  a 
magistrate  who  sleeps,  provided  the  people  under  his  charge 
sleep  as  well  as  he :  the  laws  in  that  case  sleep,  too.  For  my 
part,  I  commend  a  gliding,  staid,  and  silent  life :  "  Neque  sub- 
missam  et  ahjcctam,  neque  se  eiferentem;"  *®  my  fortune  will 
have  it  so.  I  am  descended  from  a  family  that  has  lived  with- 
out lustre  or  tumult,  and,  time  out  of  mind,  particularly  ambi- 
tious of  a  character  for  probity. 

Our  people  nowadays  are  so  bred  up  to  bustle  and  ostentation, 
that  good  nature,  moderation,  equability,  constancy,  and  such 
like  quiet  and  obscure  qualities,  are  no  more  thought  on  or  re- 

*•  "  Not  subject,  nor  abject,  but  not  obtrusive."— Cicero,  "  De  OfEc,"  i.  34. 


62  MONTAIGNE 

garded.  Rough  bodies  make  themselves  felt;  the  smooth  are 
imperceptibly  handled :  sickness  is  felt,  health  little  or  not  at  all ; 
no  more  than  the  oils  that  foment  us,  in  comparison  of  the  pains 
for  which  we  are  fomented.  'Tis  acting  for  one's  particular 
reputation  and  profit,  not  for  the  public  good,  to  refer  that  to 
be  done  in  the  public  squares  which  one  may  do  in  the  council 
chamber ;  and  to  noonday  what  might  have  been  done  the  night 
before ;  and  to  be  jealous  to  do  that  himself  which  his  colleague 
can  do  as  well  as  he ;  so  were  some  surgeons  of  Greece  wont  to 
perform  their  operations  upon  scaffolds  in  the  sight  of  the  peo- 
ple, to  draw  more  practice  and  profit.  They  think  that  good  rules 
cannot  be  understood  but  by  the  sound  of  trumpet.  Ambition  is 
not  a  vice  of  little  people  nor  of  such  modest  means  as  ours.  One 
said  to  Alexander :  "  Your  father  will  leave  you  a  great  do- 
minion, easy  and  pacific ;"  this  youth  was  emulous  of  his  father's 
victories,  and  of  the  justice  of  his  government;  he  would  not 
have  enjoyed  the  empire  of  the  world  in  ease  and  peace.  Alcib- 
iades,  in  Plato,  had  rather  die  young,  beautiful,  rich,  noble, 
and  learned,  and  all  this  in  full  excellence,  than  to  stop  short  of 
such  condition ;  this  disease  is,  peradventure,  excusable  in  so 
strong  and  so  full  a  soul.  When  wretched  and  dwarfish  souls 
gull  and  deceive  themselves,  and  think  to  spread  their  fame  for 
having  given  right  judgment  in  an  affair,  or  maintained  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  guard  of  a  gate  of  their  city,  the  more  they  think 
to  exalt  their  heads  the  more  they  show  their  tails.  This  little 
well-doing  has  neither  body  nor  life ;  it  vanishes  in  the  first 
mouth,  and  goes  no  farther  than  from  one  street  to  another. 
Talk  of  it  by  all  means  to  your  son  or  your  servant,  like  that  old 
fellow  who,  having  no  other  auditor  of  his  praises,  nor  ap- 
prover of  his  valor,  boasted  to  his  chambermaid,  crying,  "  Oh, 
Perrette,  what  a  brave,  clever  man  hast  thou  for  thy  master !" 
At  the  worst,  talk  of  it  to  yourself,  like  a  councillor  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, who,  having  disgorged  a  whole  cartful  of  law  jar- 
gon with  great  heat  and  as  great  folly,  coming  out  of  the  council 
chamber  to  a  retiring  room,  was  heard  very  complacently  to 
mutter  between  his  teeth :  "  Non  nobis,  Domine,  non  nobis,  sed 
nomini  tuo  da  gloriam:  "  *''  He  who  gets  it  of  nobody  else,  let 
him  pay  himself  out  of  his  own  purse. 

*'  "  Not   unto   us,  O    Lord,  uot  to  us;   but  unto  Thy  name  be  the  glory."— Psalm 
CXV.  1. 


OF   MANAGING   THE   WILL  63 

Fame  is  not  prostituted  at  so  cheap  a  rate ;  rare  and  exemplary 
actions,  to  which  it  is  due,  would  not  endure  the  company  of 
this  prodigious  crowd  of  petty  daily  performances.  Marble 
may  exalt  your  titles,  as  much  as  you  please,  for  having  re- 
paired a  rod  of  wall  or  cleansed  a  public  sewer ;  but  not  men  of 
sense.  Renown  does  not  follow  all  good  deads,  if  novelty  and 
difficulty  be  not  conjoined ;  nay,  so  much  as  mere  esteem,  ac- 
cording to  the  Stoics,  is  not  due  to  every  action  that  proceeds 
from  virtue ;  nor  will  they  allow  him  bare  thanks,  who,  out  of 
temperance,  abstains  from  an  old  blear-eyed  hag.  Those  who 
have  known  the  admirable  qualities  of  Scipio  Africanus  deny 
him  the  glory  that  Panaetius  attributes  to  him,  of  being  absti- 
nent from  gifts,  as  a  glory  not  so  much  his  as  that  of  the  age  he 
lived  in.*®  We  have  pleasures  suitable  to  our  lot ;  let  us  not 
usurp  those  of  grandeur ;  our  own  are  more  natural,  and  by  so 
much  more  solid  and  sure,  as  they  are  lower.  If  not  for  that 
of  conscience,  yet  at  least  for  ambition's  sake,  let  us  reject  am- 
bition ;  let  us  disdain  that  thirst  of  honor  and  renown,  so  low  and 
mendicant,  that  it  makes  us  beg  it  of  all  sorts  of  people  ("  Qucb 
est  ista  laus  quce  pessit  e  macello  peti?"  ***)  by  abject  means,  and 
at  what  cheap  rate  soever :  'tis  dishonor  to  be  so  honored.  Let 
us  learn  to  be  no  more  greedy,  than  we  are  capable,  of  glory. 
To  be  puffed  up  with  every  action  that  is  innocent  or  of  use,  is 
only  for  those  with  whom  such  things  are  extraordinary  and 
rare ;  they  wall  value  it  as  it  costs  them.  The  more  a  good 
effect  makes  a  noise  the  more  do  I  abate  of  its  goodness  as  I  sus- 
pect that  it  was  more  performed  for  the  noise,  than  upon  ac- 
count of  the  goodness ;  exposed  upon  the  stall,  'tis  half  sold. 
Those  actions  have  much  more  grace  and  lustre,  that  slip  from 
the  hand  of  him  that  does  them,  negligently  and  without  noise, 
and  that  some  honest  man  thereafter  finds  out  and  raises  from 
the  shade,  to  produce  it  to  the  light  upon  its  own  account. 
"  Mihi  quidem  laudabiliora  videnttir  omnia,  quce  sine  vendita- 
iione,  et  sine  populo  teste  Hunt,"  ^^  says  the  most  ostentatious 
man  that  ever  lived. 

I  had  but  to  conserve  and  to  continue,  which  a: :  silent  and 

««  Cicero,  "  De  Offic,"  ii.  22.  able  to  me  that  are  performed  without 

*'  "  What  praise  is  that  which  is  to  be  ostentation,   and  without   the   testimonjr 

fot  in  the  market-place?"— Cicero,  "  De  of  the  people."— Idem,  "  Tusc.  Quaes., 

■in.."  ii.   IS.  ii.  26. 
*>     All  things  truly  seem  more  laud- 


64  MONTAIGNE 

insensible  effects;  innovation  is  of  great  lustre;  but  'tis  inter- 
dicted in  this  age,  when  we  are  pressed  upon  and  have  nothing 
to  defend  ourselves  from  but  novelties.  To  forbear  doing  is 
often  as  generous  as  to  do;  but  'tis  less  in  the  light,  and  the 
little  good  that  I  have  in  me  is  of  this  kind.  In  fine  occasions 
in  this  employment  of  mine  have  been  confederate  with  my 
humor,  and  I  heartily  thank  them  for  it.  Is  there  any  who  de- 
sires to  be  sick,  that  he  may  see  his  physician  at  work?  and 
would  not  that  physician  deserve  to  be  whipped,  who  should 
wish  the  plague  among  us,  that  he  might  put  his  art  in  prac- 
tice? I  have  never  been  of  that  wicked  humor,  and  common 
enough,  to  desire  that  troubles  and  disorders  in  this  city  should 
elevate  and  honor  my  government ;  I  have  ever  heartily  con- 
tributed all  I  could  to  their  tranquillity  and  ease.  He  who  will 
not  thank  me  for  the  order,  the  sweet  and  silent  calm  that  has 
accompanied  my  administration,  cannot,  however,  deprive  me  of 
the  share  that  belongs  to  me,  by  title  of  my  good  fortune.  And 
I  am  of  such  a  composition  that  I  would  as  willingly  be  lucky 
as  wise,  and  had  rather  owe  my  successes  purely  to  the  favor 
of  Almighty  God  than  to  any  operation  of  my  own.  I  had 
sufficiently  published  to  the  world  my  unfitness  for  such  public 
offices;  but  I  have  something  in  me  yet  worse  than  incapacity 
itself ;  which  is,  that  I  am  not  much  displeased  at  it,  and  that  I 
do  not  much  go  about  to  cure  it,  considering  the  course  of  life 
that  I  have  proposed  to  myself.  Neither  have  I  satisfied  my- 
self in  this  employment ;  but  I  have  very  near  arrived  at  what 
I  expected  from  my  own  performance,  and  have  much  surpassed 
what  I  promised  them  with  whom  I  had  to  do ;  for  I  am  apt  to 
promise  something  less  than  what  I  am  able  to  do  and  than 
what  I  hope  to  make  good.  I  assure  myself  that  I  have  left  no 
offence  or  hatred  behind  me;  to  leave  regret  or  desire  for  me 
among  them,  I  at  least  know  very  well  that  I  never  much  aimed 
at  it: 

"  Mene  huic  confidere  motistro  / 

Mene  salis  placidi  vultum,flucttisqtie  quietos 

Ignorare  ?  "  ^^ 

•' "  Sliould   I   place  confidence  in  this        those      now      quiet     waves?  "  — Vergil, 
Oionstcr?     Should   I   be   iRnorant  of  the        "  ^Encid,"  v.  849. 
dangers    of    that    seeming    placid    sea, 


OF    CEREMONIES 
ON    CROMWELL 

BY 

VOLTAIRE 

[(Francois-Marie  ArouetX 


D— Vol.  GO 


FRANCOIS-MARIE   VOLTAIRE  , 

1694— 1778 

The  father  of  the  great  French  writer  universally  known  as  Voltaire 
was  a  notary  of  good  family  by  the  name  of  Arouet.  His  famous  son, 
who  was  born  at  Chatefiay  in  1694,  was  baptized  Frangois-Marie  Arouet 
He  took  the  name  Voltaire  in  1718,  shortly  after  the  production  of 
his  tragedy  "  CEdipe."  The  origin  of  his  assumed  name  has  never 
been  definitely  traced.  Voltaire's  early  education  was  in  charge  of 
the  Jesuits  at  the  College  Louis-le-Grand  in  Paris.  He  began  the 
writing  of  verses  while  at  college,  and  his  wit,  seconded  by  the  influ- 
ence of  his  godfather,  the  Abbe  de  Chateauneuf,  secured  for  him  an 
introduction  into  the  most  aristocratic  circles  of  Parisian  society.  The 
freedom  of  his  satirical  utterances  soon  made  enemies  for  him.  Be- 
tween 1716  and  1726  he  was  twice  expelled  from  Paris,  and  twice 
imprisoned  in  the  Bastille.  His  second  imprisonment  was  due  to  a  ' 
quarrel  with  an  influential  but  unscrupulous  nobleman.  These  differ- 
ences eventually  caused  his  expulsion  from  the  country. 

During  his  exile  Voltaire  spent  nearly  two  years  in  England.  At  that 
time  the  group  of  literary  men  who  made  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne 
illustrious  was  at  the  height  of  its  activity,  and  London  was  the  fore- 
most literary  centre  in  Europe.  Here  Voltaire  wrote  his  "  Histoire 
de  Charles  XH  "  and  a  number  of  tragedies,  of  which  "  Zaire  "  was 
the  most  successful,  and  published  his  "  Henriade."  His  "  Lettres 
philosophiques  "  produced  such  a  storm  in  France  that  they  were  or- 
dered to  be  destroyed  by  the  public  executioner.  In  1734  Voltaire  went 
to  live  at  the  chateau  of  the  Marquise  du  Chatelet  at  Cirey  in  Champagne. 
The  Marquise,  who  was  devoted  to  science  and  literature,  had  con- 
ceived a  great  admiration  for  Voltaire,  and  sought  to  surround  him 
with  the  external  conditions  most  favorable  to  sustain  literary  effort. 
With  the  exception  of  some  brief  excursions  Voltaire  remained  at 
Cirey  until  the  death  of  his  patroness  in  1749.  During  this  period  he 
wrote  the  dramas  "  Zulime,"  "  L'enfant  prodigue,"  "  Mahomet,"  "  Me- 
tope," and  the  "  Essai  sur  les  moeurs."  In  1746,  being  again  in  favor 
with  the  Court,  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy. 

From  1750  to  1753  Voltaire  resided  at  the  Court  of  Frederick  the 
Great,  where  he  completed  and  published  one  of  his  most  important 
works,  "  Le  siecle  de  Louis  XIV."  After  quarrelling  with  his  royal 
master  he  returned  to  France.  In  1758  he  purchased  the  chateau  of 
Ferney,  in  France,  near  the  Swiss  frontier,  where  he  passed  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  Of  his  later  works  the  most  notable  were  his 
"  Histoire  de  la  Russie  sous  Pierre  le  Grand."  his  tragedy  "  Tancrede," 
and  the  novels  "  Candide,"  "  Zadig,"  and  "  L'Ingenu."  In  1778  Vol- 
taire was  invited  to  Paris,  where  he  was  received  like  a  conquering 
hero.  The  fatigue  of  the  journey  and  the  excitement  of  his  enthusi- 
astic reception  were  too  great  a  strain  on  his  weakened  frame,  and  he 
died  at  Paris  on  May  30,  1778. 

Numerous  volumes  of  Voltaire's  works  fail  to  reveal  the  secret  of 
the  vast  influence  he  exerted.  He  attacked  institutions  that  were 
already  tottering  in  their  foundations,  and  addressed  minds  already  ripe 
for  the  principles  he  preached.  His  writings  are,  however,  remark- 
able for  their  wit  and  versatility,  and  for  their  easy,  graceful  style,  of 
which  his  essays  "  On  Cromwell "  and  "  On  Ceremonies  "  arc  ex- 
cellent examples. 


66 


OF  CEREMONIES 

THE  arm-chair,  the  easy-chair,  the  court-stool,  the  right 
and  the  left  hand,  have  for  several  ages  been  considered 
as  important  objects  of  policy  and  illustrious  subjects 
for  disputes.  I  fancy  that  the  ancient  ceremonial  relating  to 
arm-chairs  took  its  rise  from  our  barbarous  ancestors  having 
but  one  of  these  chairs  at  most  in  a  house,  and  that  this  was 
commonly  appropriated  to  the  use  of  any  person  who  was  sick. 
There  are  still  several  provinces  in  France,  and  countries  in 
England,  where  the  arm-chair  is  called  a  groaning-chair. 

Long  after  the  times  of  Attila  and  Dagobert,  when  luxury 
began  to  creep  into  courts,  and  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  had 
two  or  three  arm-chairs  in  their  mighty  dungeons,  it  was  es- 
teemed a  singular  mark  of  distinction  to  sit  on  one  of  these 
thrones ;  and  the  master  of  a  castle  took  care  to  have  preserved 
among  the  records  of  his  family  that  having  been  to  pay  his 
court  to  such  a  count,  he  had  been  received  by  him  in  an  arm- 
chair. 

We  may  read  in  the  "  Memoirs  "  of  Mademoiselle,  sister  to 
Louis  XIV,  that  this  august  princess  passed  at  least  a  fourth 
part  of  her  life  in  mortal  agonies  occasioned  by  disputes  about 
easy-chairs ;  and  a  whole  court  was  taken  up  in  caballing  whether 
it  was  proper  to  sit  on  a  chair  or  a  stool  in  such  or  such  a  room, 
or  whether  to  sit  at  all.  xA.t  present  our  manners  are  more  uni- 
form ;  and  ladies  make  use  indifferently  of  couches  or  sofas, 
without  the  peace  of  society  being  disturbed. 

When  Cardinal  Richelieu  was  negotiating  the  marriage  be- 
tween Henrietta  of  France  and  Charles  I  of  England,  with  the 
ambassador  of  that  nation,  the  affair  was  on  the  point  of  being 
broken  off,  on  account  of  two  or  three  steps  nearer  to  a  door 
that  was  claimed  by  the  ambassador,  till  the  cardinal,  to  get 
over  the  mighty  difificulty,  received  him  in  bed  ;  and  this  precious 
anecdote  has  been  carefully  preserved  in  history.  I  am  of 
opinion  that,  if  it  had  been  proposed  to  Scipio  to  place  himself 

C7 


68  VOLTAIRE 

at  his  length  naked  between  two  sheets  to  receive  Hannibal's 
visit,  he  would  have  thought  it  a  droll  ceremony. 

One  coach  going  before  another,  and  what  is  called  taking 
the  way  in  a  street  or  a  road,  has  also  been  a  mark  of  grandeur, 
and  occasioned  claims,  disputes,  and  petty  combats,  for  a  whole 
century  together ;  and  it  was  esteemed  a  singular  victory  for  the 
equipage  of  one  person  to  oblige  that  of  another  to  yield  the 
way.  When  foreign  ambassadors  passed  through  a  street  it 
was  like  disputing  the  prize  in  a  circus ;  and  if  a  Spanish  min- 
ister made  a  Portuguese  coachman  back  his  horses,  he  imme- 
diately despatched  a  courier  post  haste  to  Madrid,  to  inform 
the  King  his  master  of  the  advantage  he  had  gained. 

In  proportion  as  a  nation  is  more  or  less  barbarous,  or  the 
court  weak  or  powerful,  these  ceremonies  are  more  or  less  in 
vogue.     True  power  and  real  politeness  despise  ostentation. 

It  is  probable  that  we  shall  one  time  or  other  see  an  end  to 
the  ridiculous  custom  which  still  prevails  among  the  ambassa- 
dors of  some  courts,  to  beggar  themselves  for  the  sake  of  going 
in  procession  through  the  streets  with  a  number  of  hired 
coaches,  vamped  up  and  new-gilt,  and  preceded  by  a  crowd  of 
servants  walking  on  foot.  This  is  called  making  their  entry ; 
and  it  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  of  a  person  making  his  entry 
into  a  city  seven  or  eight  months  after  his  arrival. 

The  important  afifair  of  the  punctilio,  which  constitutes  the 
grandeur  of  the  modern  Romans — the  theory  of  the  number  of 
paces  to  be  made  in  conducting  a  signer  to  the  door  at  his 
departure;  of  opening  a  curtain  half  way,  or  altogether;  of 
taking  the  right  or  left  hand  of  a  person  in  a  room — this  noble 
art,  I  say,  which  would  never  have  entered  the  head  of  a  Fabius 
or  a  Cato,  begins  now  to  give  way ;  and  the  train-bearers  to  the 
Cardinals  lament,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  that  everything  seems 
to  denounce  a  general  lapse  of  these  essential  ceremonials. 

A  French  colonel  happening  to  be  at  Brussels,  about  a  year 
ago,  and  not  knowing  how  to  spend  his  time,  proposed  going 
to  the  public  assembly ;  one  of  his  acquaintances  told  him  it 
was  held  at  the  house  of  a  princess.  "  Very  true,"  replied  the 
officer ;  "  but  what  of  that  ?  "  "  Why,  princes  go  there."  "  Are 
you  a  prince?  "  "  Pish,  man !  "  said  he,  "  they  are  a  very  good 
kind  of  princes ;  last  year,  when  we  took  the  town,  I  had  a 
dozen  of  them  waiting  in  my  ante-chamber;  they  are  the  civilest 
creatures  breathing." 


ON   CROMWELL 

CROMWELL  is  commonly  represented  as  one  who  was 
an  impostor  through  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  This 
is  what  I  can  hardly  believe.  My  opinion  of  the  matter 
is  that  he  was,  first  of  all,  an  enthusiast,  but  that  afterwards  he 
made  his  very  fanaticism  subservient  to  his  greatness.  A 
novice  possessed  of  extreme  religious  fervor  at  twenty  often 
becomes  a  consummate  knavfi  at  forty.  In  the  great  game  of 
human  life  men  begin  with  being  dupes,  but  end  knaves.  A 
statesman  shall  sometimes  take  for  his  chaplain  a  monk  covered 
over  with  the  little  pedantry  of  his  convent ;  fanatic,  devout, 
credulous,  awkward,  and  quite  raw  in  the  world ;  the  monk 
acquires  knowledge,  politeness,  learns  to  intrigue,  till  at  last  he 
supplants  his  patron. 

Cromwell  at  first  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  himself,  and 
was  puzzled  whether  to  be  a  churchman  or  a  soldier.  He  was 
actually  both.  He  made  a  campaign  with  Frederick  Henry, 
Prince  of  Orange,  in  1622,  who  was  not  only  a  man  of  great 
capacity  himself,  but  also  brother  to  two  illustrious  personages. 
When  he  returned  to  England  he  entered  into  the  service  of 
Bishop  Williams,  and  was  my  lord's  chaplain,  whilst  my  lord 
was  thought  to  be  rather  to  great  with  his  wife.  His  religious 
principles  were  those  of  the  puritanical  sect ;  so  that  he  could 
not  but  mortally  hate  the  bishop,  nor  could  he  have  any  great 
affection  for  kings.  He  was  banished  from  the  bishop's  family 
on  account  of  his  being  a  puritan,  and  this  accident  was  properly 
the  foundation  and  first  beginning  of  all  his  grandeur.  The 
English  Parliament  had  declared  against  royalty  and  episcopacy 
when  some  friends  Cromwell  had  in  that  Parliament  succeeded 
in  having  him  chosen  for  a  borough.  He  may  be  said  to  have 
existed  only  from  this  time  and  was  turned  of  forty  before  he 
made  any  noise  in  the  world.  In  vain  had  he  studied  the  Bible, 
learned  to  wrangle  about  the  institution  of  priests  and  deacons, 

69 


70  VOLTAIRE 

and  made  some  wretched  sermons  and  libels:  he  was  still  in 
obscurity.  I  have  seen  a  sermon  of  his  pretty  much  like  one  of 
the  Quakers'  harangues,  in  which  one  cannot  discover  the  small- 
est traces  of  that  persuasive  eloquence  by  which  he  afterwards 
swayed  the  Parliaments.  The  true  reason  of  this  is,  he  was 
much  better  qualified  for  the  State  than  the  Church.  But  his 
eloquence  consisted  wholly  in  his  air  and  in  the  tone  of  his  voice ; 
the  single  motion  of  that  hand,  that  won  so  many  battles,  and 
killed  so  many  Royalists,  was  more  persuasive  than  all  the 
studied  periods  of  Cicero.  It  must  also  be  acknowledged  that 
the  reputation  he  acquired  was  wholly  owing  to  his  incompar- 
able valor,  which  laid  the  first  steps  of  that  ladder,  by  which  he 
reached  the  highest  summit  of  human  grandeur. 

He  began  with  serving  as  a  volunteer,  desirous  of  making 
his  fortune  in  the  city  of  Hull,  which  was  then  besieged  by  the 
King.  Here  he  performed  so  many  gallant  and  successful  ex- 
ploits that  he  was  rewarded  by  the  Parliament  with  a  gratifica- 
tion of  about  six  thousand  livres  of  our  money.  Such  a  present, 
bestowed  by  the  Parliament  on  a  simple  volunteer,  was  a  sure 
prognostic  that  their  party  must  one  day  get  the  better.  The 
King  was  not  then  in  a  condition  to  make  such  a  present  to  his 
general  officers  as  the  Parliament  gave  on  this  occasion  to 
their  volunteers.  With  money  and  fanaticism,  they  must,  in 
the  long  run,  overcome  all  that  stood  in  their  way :  they  made 
Cromwell  a  colonel :  then  it  was  that  his  great  talents  for  war 
began  to  display  themselves,  insomuch  that,  when  the  Parlia- 
ment made  the  Earl  of  Manchester  their  general,  they  made 
Cromwell  a  lieutenant-general,  without  passing  through  the 
intermediate  ranks.  Never  did  man  seem  more  worthy  of 
command ;  never  was  there  seen  a  greater  share  of  prudence 
and  activity,  or  a  more  daring  and  undaunted  spirit,  joined  to 
such  an  infinity  of  resources  as  were  in  Cromwell. 

He  was  wounded  in  the  battle  of  York ;  and  whilst  the  sur- 
geons were  beginning  to  dress  his  wound  he  was  told  that  his 
general.  Lord  Manchester,  was  retreating,  and  the  battle  en- 
tirely lost.  He  runs  to  Lord  Manchester,  whom  he  finds  flying 
with  some  of  his  officers :  he  immediately  takes  him  by  the 
arm;  and,  with  an  air  of  intrepidity  and  greatness,  told  him, 
*'  You  are  mistaken,  my  lord ;  this  is  not  the  way  the  enemy 
have  fled."  He  leads  him  back  near  to  the  spot  on  which  the 
battle  was  fought ;  rallies    in    the    night    upwards  of  twelve 


ON   CROMWELL  71 

thousand  men ;  exhorts  them  in  the  name  of  the  Lord ;  cites 
the  examples  of  Moses,  Gideon,  and  Joshua;  beseeches  them 
by  all  means  not  to  neglect  to  engage  the  victorious  Royalists 
at  break  of  day;  and  entirely  defeats  them.  Almost  all  the 
officers  in  his  army  were  enthusiasts,  who  carried  their  Bibles 
tied  to  the  pommel  of  their  saddles :  There  was  nothing  talked 
of,  either  in  the  army  or  in  Parliament,  but  the  overthrowing 
of  Babylon,  establishing  the  Lord's  worship  in  the  new  Jeru- 
salem, and  breaking  the  great  idol.  Cromwell,  though  amidst 
a  host  of  fools,  grew  wise  at  last,  and  bethought  himself  that 
it  was  better  to  guide  them  than  to  be  governed  by  them.  The 
habit,  however,  of  preaching  like  one  inspired  still  remained 
with  him.  Imagine  to  yourself  a  fakir,  with  his  loins  bound 
about  with  a  girdle  of  iron  out  of  mere  mortification,  who  af- 
terwards pulls  off  his  girdle  and  falls  to  knocking  down  his 
brother  fakirs.  This  is  Cromwell:  he  became  full  as  good 
a  politician  as  he  was  a  soldier:  he  enters  into  an  association 
with  all  the  colonels  of  the  army ;  and  thus  he  forms  his  soldiers 
into  a  kind  of  republic,  who  force  their  general  to  abdicate. 
Another  generalissimo  is  named,  with  whom  he  is  presently 
dissatisfied  ;  he  governs  the  army,  and  with  them  the  Parliament, 
whom  he  at  last  compels  to  create  him  generalissimo.  All  this  is 
certainly  a  great  deal ;  but  what  is  more  remarkable  is,  that  he 
gained  every  battle  he  fought,  whether  in  Scotland,  England, 
or  Ireland ;  and  gained  them  not  like  other  generals,  by  being  a 
mere  spectator,  solicitous  about  his  own  safety,  but  by  con- 
tinually charging  the  enemy  in  person ;  rallying  his  troops ;  by 
being  present  everywhere  ;  often  wounded,  killing  several  of  the 
Royalists  with  his  own  hand ;  like  some  furious  grenadier,  that 
delights  in  carnage. 

In  the  midst  of  this  cruel  and  bloody  war,  Cromwell  was 
making  love,  and  went  with  his  Bible  under  his  arm  to  lie  with 
the  wife  of  his  major-general,  Lambert.  This  lady  was  in  love 
with  the  Earl  of  Holland,  who  was  then  serving  in  the  royal 
army.  Cromwell  takes  him  prisoner  in  one  of  his  battles,  and 
has  the  pleasure  to  cut  off  his  rival's  head.  His  maxim  was 
to  cut  off  every  enemy  of  any  consequence,  either  in  the  field 
of  battle,  or  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner.  He  increased  his 
power  on  every  occasion  by  perpetually  abusing  it ;  and  the 
depth  of  his  designs  wants  nothing  of  his  natural  ferocity.  He 
enters  the  Parliament,  and  taking  out  his  watch,  throws  it  on 


72 


VOLTAIRE 


the  ground,  and  breaks  it  into  pieces,  with  this  expression,  "  I 
will  break  you,  just  as  I  have  done  that  watch."  Some  time 
after  he  returns,  and  dissolves  them  by  his  own  authority,  mak- 
ing them  file  off,  as  it  were,  in  review,  before  him.  Each  mem- 
ber was  obliged,  as  he  passed  him,  to  make  him  a  profound  bow. 
One  of  them,  it  seems,  thought  proper  to  pass  him  with  his  hat 
on ;  when  Cromwell,  taking  it  off,  threw  it  on  the  ground. 
"  Learn,"  says  he,  "  to  show  me  the  proper  respect." 

After  having  insulted  every  crowned  head,  by  cutting  ofl 
that  of  the  King,  his  lawful  sovereign,  and  when  he  had  even 
begun  his  own  reign,  he  sent  his  picture  to  Queen  Christina  of 
Sweden.  Marvel,  a  famous  English  poet,  who  made  very  good 
Latin  verses,  composed  six  lines  on  the  occasion,  which  were 
to  accompany  that  present,  in  which  he  introduced  Cromwell 
himself.     Cromwell  corrected  the  two  last,  which  are  these : 

"  At  tibi  submittit frontem  reverentior  umbia 
Non  sunt  bi  vultus  regibus  usque  truces. " 

The  bold  sentiment  expressed  in  those  three  couplets  may  be 
turned  in  this  manner : 

"  Les  amies  a  la  main  fai  defendu  les  loix  ; 
D'un  peuple  audacieux  fai  venge  la  querelh ; 
Regardez  sans  franir  cette  image Jidhle  ; 
Mon  front  ti\st  pas  toujours  Pepouvante  des  rots** 

Behold  the  chief  who  fought  for  dying  laws, 
And  shunned  no  dangers  in  his  country's  cause; 
To  kings  no  longer  dreadful,  sues  to  you, 
And  smooths  the  terrors  of  his  awful  brow. 

This  queen  was  the  first  who  acknowledged  him  on  his  being 
made  protector  of  the  three  kingdoms.  Almost  every  sovereign 
in  Europe  sent  ambassadors  to  their  brother  Cromwell,  to  this 
once  menial  servant  of  a  bishop,  who  had  put  his  sovereign, 
who  was  of  their  blood,  to  death  by  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner :  Nay,  they  disputed  who  should  have  the  honor  of  being 
in  alliance  with  him.  Cardinal  Mazarin,  to  please  him,  ban- 
ished the  two  sons  of  Charles  1,  the  two  grandsons  of  Henry  IV, 
the  two  cousins-germain  of  Louis  XIV,  of  France;  conquered 
Dunkirk  for  him,  and  the  keys  of  that  place  were  accordingly 
sent  him.     When  he  died,  Louis  XIV,  with  his  whole  court. 


ON   CROMWELL  73 

put  on  mourning,  except  mademoiselle,  who  had  the  courage 
to  come  to  the  circle  in  colors,  thus  singly  maintaining  the  honor 
of  her  family. 

Never  was  there  a  king  more  absolute  than  Cromwell.  He 
said  he  liked  better  to  govern  under  the  quality  of  protector 
than  that  of  king,  because  the  power  of  the  latter  was  well 
known  to  the  people  of  England,  whereas  that  of  a  protector  was 
not.  This  showed  a  thorough  knowledge  of  mankind,  who  are 
slaves  to  opinion,  which  opinion  often  depends  on  a  mere  name. 
He  had  conceived  a  thorough  contempt  for  religion,  though  he 
was  indebted  to  it  for  all  the  power  and  honors  he  enjoyed.  We 
have  an  undeniable  anecdote  of  this  preserved  in  the  St.  John 
family,  which  is  a  sufficient  proof  of  the  sovereign  contempt 
Cromwell  entertained  for  that  instrument  which  had  produced 
such  wonderful  effects  in  his  hands.  He  was  one  day  cracking 
a  bottle  with  Ireton  Fleetwood  and  St.  John.  They  wanted  to 
draw  the  cork  of  a  bottle,  when  the  corkscrew  happened  to  fall 
under  the  table  ;  they  were,  all  of  them  in  search  of  it,  but  could 
not  find  it.  In  the  mean  time  word  was  brought  in  that  a  deputa- 
tion from  the  Presbyterian  churches  waited  for  an  audience  in 
the  ante-chamber.  "  Tell  them,"  says  Cromwell,  "  that  I  am  in 
private  seeking  the  Lord."  This  was  the  canting  expression 
of  those  fanatics  for  being  at  prayers.  When  he  had  in  this 
manner  dismissed  the  deputation  of  ministers,  he  made  use  of 
these  very  words  to  his  companions :  "  Those  knaves  think  we 
are  seeking  the  Lord,  whereas  in  truth  we  are  looking  for  the 
corkscrew." 

Europe  has  no  other  example  of  a  man  who  raised  himself 
to  such  a  height  of  glory  from  so  humble  an  original.  What 
could  such  a  man  want  ?  Success.  This  success  he  enjoyed ; 
but  was  he  happy  with  all  his  good  fortune  ?  He  lived  in  very 
narrow  and  uneasy  circumstances  till  past  forty ;  he  then  bathed 
himself  in  blood,  passed  the  rest  of  his  days  in  perpetual  anxie- 
ties, and  died  at  last  in  his  seven  and  fiftieth  year.  Let  any 
man  but  compare  the  life  of  this  man  with  that  of  Newton,  who 
lived  four-score  and  four  years,  in  perfect  tranquillity,  full  of 
honor,  the  light  and  guide  of  all  intelligent  beings,  his  reputation 
and  fortune  daily  increasing,  without  care  or  remorse;  and 
then  tell  me  whose  was  the  happier  lot  of  the  two. 

O  curas  hotninum,  o  quantum  est  in  rebus  inane  I 


THE    PEOPLE 


BY 


JEAN    JACQUES     ROUSSEAU 


JEAN  JACQUES  ROUSSEAU 

1712— 1778 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  was  born  at  Geneva  in  1712.  His  early  edu- 
cation was  sadly  neglected,  but  he  acquired  a  great  deal  of  knowledge 
by  reading,  which,  though  unsystematic,  was  extensive.  His  father 
was  a  watchmaker,  and  young  Rousseau  was,  therefore,  apprenticed 
to  a  watchmaker  in  his  native  town.  But  the  boy  soon  ran  away  from 
his  master,  and  figured  successively  in  the  capacity  of  an  engraver's 
apprentice,  a  lackey,  a  musician,  a  student  in  a  seminary,  a  clerk,  a 
private  tutor,  and  a  music  copyist.  From  time  to  time  he  lived  at 
the  houses  of  various  patrons — Madame  de  Warens,  Madame  d'Epinay, 
the  Duke  of  Luxembourg,  Marshall  Keith,  David  Hume,  Madame 
d'Enghien — and  quarrelled  with  all.  His  last  home  was  with  M.  de 
Giradin,  near  Paris,  where  he  died  in  1778. 

The  first  period  of  Rousseau's  life,  covering  nearly  twenty  years, 
has  been  characterized  as  one  of  vagabondage.  The  next  period,  end- 
ing about  1741,  was  devoted  to  ardent  study;  and  during  this  time 
he  evidenced  a  steadily  growing  interest  in  literature.  The  nine  suc- 
ceeding years  were  the  period  of  his  lighter  writings,  operas,  and  come- 
dies. None  of  them  have  proved  of  permanent  interest,  but  they  gave 
him  a  considerable  reputation  among  the  literary  circles  of  his  day. 
Some  articles  on  music  contributed  to  the  "  Encyclopedic  "  secured  for 
him  an  introduction  to  Diderot,  who  probably  influenced  him  in  turning 
his  mind  toward  more  serious  subjects. 

In  1749  Rousseau  wrote  an  essay  to  compete  for  a  prize  offered  by 
the  Academy  of  Dijon,  entitled  "  Discours  sur  les  sciences  et  les 
arts,"  which  was  crowned  and  brought  him  great  fame.  During  the 
following  ten  years  he  wrote  in  rapid  succession  the  works  that  have 
given  him  lasting  fame.  His  romance  "  Julie,  ou  la  nouvelle  Heloise  " 
appeared  in  1761.  The  year  following  he  published  "  Emile,  ou  de 
I'education,"  and  the  "  Contrat  social."  The  ideas  expressed  in 
"  Emile  "  led  to  Rousseau's  exile  from  France,  but  it  is  credited  with 
having  laid  the  foundation  of  modern  pedagogy. 

The  "  Contrat  social  "  voiced  the  popular  protest  against  the  injus- 
tice of  a  social  state  already  rotten  and  trembling  on  the  brink  of 
ruin.  Rousseau's  brilliant  social  philosophy,  though  superficial  and 
often  false,  was  hailed  by  the  downtrodden  masses  as  an  inspired  mes- 
sage, and  became  the  gospel  of  the  Revolution. 

The  vast  influence  of  Rousseau's  work  on  the  social  and  political 
history  of  France  overshadows  but  should  not  blind  us  to  the  far- 
reaching  influence  of  his  style  and  methods  upon  literature.  His  novels 
popularized  the  analysis  of  the  emotions,  and  he  was  the  first  writer 
to  make  word-painting  of  nature  an  indispensable  element  of  fiction. 
His  style,  both  in  his  romances  and  in  his  more  serious  writings,  is 
simple,  direct,  unconventional,  yet  full  of  passion  and  eloquence. 

His  tcacliings  and  his  literary  manner  exerted  a  strong  influence 
on  the  orators  of  the  French  Revolution.  The  essay  on  "  The  People  " 
is  taken  from  the  "  Social  Contract,"  and  is  a  characteristic  example 
of  his  work  in  his  best  and  most  effective  vein.  After  Rousseau's  ex- 
pulsion from  France  he  lived  in  Switzerland  and  England  until  he 
was  allowed  to  return  in  1767,  on  condition  that  he  would  henceforth 
cease  to  write  for  publication.  Accordingly,  his  last  works  of  conse- 
quence, "  I>cs  confessions  "  and  "  Reveries  d'un  promencur  solitaire," 
were  not  published  until  four  years  after  his  death.  He  died  of  apoplexy 
at  Ermcnonvillc,  near  Paris,  on  July  2,  1778. 

76 


THE   PEOPLE 

AS  an  architect,  before  erecting  a  large  edifice,  examines 
and  tests  the  soil  in  order  to  see  whether  it  can  support 
the  weight,  so  a  wise  lawgiver  does  not  begin  by  draw- 
ing up  laws  that  are  good  in  themselves,  but  considers  first 
whether  the  people  for  whom  he  designs  them  are  fit  to  endure 
them.  It  is  on  this  account  that  Plato  refused  to  legislate  for 
the  Arcadians  and  Cyrenians,  knowing  that  these  two  peoples 
were  rich  and  could  not  tolerate  equality ;  and  it  is  on  this 
account  that  good  laws  and  worthless  men  were  to  be  found 
in  Crete,  for  Minos  had  only  disciplined  a  people  steeped  in 
vice. 

A  thousand  nations  that  have  flourished  on  the  earth  could 
never  have  borne  good  laws ;  and  even  those  that  might  have 
done  so  could  have  succeeded  for  only  a  very  short  period  of 
their  whole  duration.  The  majority  of  nations,  as  well  as  of 
men,  are  tractable  only  in  their  youth ;  they  become  incorrigible 
as  they  grow  old.  When  once  customs  are  established  and 
prejudices  have  taken  root,  it  is  a  perilous  and  futile  enterprise 
to  try  and  reform  them ;  for  the  people  cannot  even  endure 
that  their  evils  should  be  touched  with  a  view  to  their  removal, 
like  those  stupid  and  cov/ardly  patients  that  shudder  at  the 
sight  of  a  physician. 

But  just  as  some  diseases  unhinge  men's  minds  and  deprive 
them  of  all  remembrance  of  the  past,  so  we  sometimes  find, 
during  the  existence  of  States,  epochs  of  violence,  in  which 
revolutions  produce  an  influence  upon  nations  such  as  certain 
crises  produce  upon  individuals,  in  which  horror  of  the  past 
supplies  the  place  of  forgetfulness,  and  in  which  the  State,  in- 
flamed by  civil  wars,  springs  forth  so  to  speak  from  its  ashes, 
and  regains  the  vigor  of  youth  in  issuing  from  the  arms  of 
death.     Such  was  Sparta  in  the  time  of  Lycurgus,  such  was 

77 


78  ROUSSEAU 

Rome  after  the  Tarquins,  and  such  among  us  moderns  were 
Holland  and  Switzerland  after  the  expulsion  of  their  tyrants. 

But  these  events  are  rare ;  they  are  exceptions,  the  explana- 
tion of  which  is  always  found  in  the  particular  constitution  of 
the  excepted  State.  They  could  not  even  happen  twice  with 
the  same  nation ;  for  it  may  render  itself  free  so  long  as  it  is 
merely  barbarous,  but  can  no  longer  do  so  when  the  resources 
of  the  State  are  exhausted.  Then  commotions  may  destroy 
it  without  revolutions  being  able  to  restore  it,  and  as  soon  as 
its  chains  are  broken,  it  falls  in  pieces  and  ceases  to  exist ; 
henceforward  it  requires  a  master  and  not  a  deliverer.  Free 
nations,  remember  this  maxim :  "  Liberty  may  be  acquired 
but  never  recovered." 

Youth  is  not  infancy.  There  is  for  nations  as  for  men  a 
period  of  youth,  or,  if  you  will,  of  maturity,  which  they  must 
await  before  they  are  subjected  to  laws ;  but  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  discern  when  a  people  is  mature,  and  if  the  time  is  an- 
ticipated, the  labor  is  abortive.  One  nation  is  governable  from 
its  origin,  another  is  not  so  at  the  end  of  ten  centuries.  The 
Russians  will  never  be  really  civilized,  because  they  have  been 
civilized  too  early.  Peter  had  an  imitative  genius ;  he  had  not 
the  true  genius  that  creates  and  produces  anything  from  noth- 
ing. Some  of  his  measures  were  beneficial,  but  the  majority 
were  ill-timed.  He  saw  that  his  people  were  barbarous,  but 
he  did  not  see  that  they  were  unripe  for  civilization  ;  he  wished 
to  civilize  them,  when  it  was  necessary  only  to  discipline  them. 
He  wished  to  produce  at  once  Germans  or  Englishmen,  when, 
he  should  have  begun  by  making  Russians ;  he  prevented  his 
subjects  from  ever  becoming  what  they  might  have  been,  by 
persuading  them  that  they  were  what  they  were  not.  It  is  in 
this  way  that  a  French  tutor  trains  his  pupil  to  shine  for  a 
moment  in  childhood,  and  then  to  be  forever  a  nonentity.  The 
Russian  Empire  will  desire  to  subjugate  Europe,  and  will  itself 
be  subjugated.  The  Tartars,  its  subjects  or  neighbors,  will 
become  its  masters  and  ours.  This  revolution  appears  to  me 
inevitable.  All  the  kings  of  Europe  are  working  in  concert 
to  accelerate  it. 

As  nature  has  set  limits  to  the  stature  of  a  properly  formed 
man,  outside  which  it  produces  only  giants  and  dwarfs;  so 
likewise,  with  regard  to  the  best  constitution  of  a  State,  there 


THE   PEOPLE 


79 


are  limits  to  its  possible  extent  so  that  it  may  be  neither  too 
great  to  enable  it  to  be  well  governed,  nor  too  small  to  enable  it 
to  maintain  itself  single-handed.  There  is  in  every  body  politic 
a  maximum  of  force  which  it  cannot  exceed,  and  which  is  often 
diminished  as  the  State  is  aggrandized.  The  more  the  social 
bond  is  extended,  the  more  it  is  weakened ;  and,  in  general,  a 
small  State  is  proportionally  stronger  than  a  large  one. 

A  thousand  reasons  demonstrate  the  truth  of  this  maxim. 
In  the  first  place,  administration  becomes  more  difficult  at 
great  distances,  as  a  weight  becomes  heavier  at  the  end  of  a 
longer  lever.  It  also  becomes  more  burdensome  in  proportion 
as  its  parts  are  multiplied ;  for  every  town  has  first  its  own  ad- 
ministration, for  which  the  people  pay ;  every  district  has  its 
administration,  still  paid  for  by  the  people ;  next,  every  prov- 
ince, then  the  superior  governments,  the  satrapies,  the  vice- 
royalties,  which  must  be  paid  for  more  dearly  as  we  ascend, 
and  always  at  the  cost  of  the  unfortunate  people ;  lastly  comes 
the  supreme  administration,  which  overwhelms  everything. 
So  many  additional  burdens  perpetually  exhaust  the  subjects ; 
and  far  from  being  better  governed  by  .all  these  different  or- 
ders, they  are  much  worse  governed  than  if  they  had  but  a 
single  superior.  Meanwhile,  hardly  any  resources  remain  for 
cases  of  emergency ;  and  when  it  is  necessary  to  have  recourse 
to  them  the  State  trembles  on  the  brink  of  ruin. 

Nor  is  this  all ;  not  only  has  the  government  less  vigor  and 
activity  in  enforcing  observance  of  the  laws,  in  putting  a  stop 
to  vexations,  in  reforming  abuses,  and  in  forestalling  seditious 
enterprises  which  may  be  entered  upon  in  distant  places ;  but 
the  people  have  less  affection  for  their  chiefs  whom  they  never 
see,  for  their  country,  which  is  in  their  eyes  like  the  world,  and 
for  their  fellow-citizens,  most  of  whom  are  strangers  to  them. 
The  same  laws  cannot  be  suitable  to  so  manv  different  prov- 
inces, which  have  diflFerent  customs  and  diflferent  climates,  and 
cannot  tolerate  the  same  form  of  government.  Different  laws 
beget  only  trouble  and  confusion  among  the  nations  which, 
living  under  the  same  chiefs  and  in  constant  communication, 
mingle  or  intermarry  with  one  another,  and,  when  subjected 
to  other  usages,  never  know  whether  their  patrimony  is  really 
theirs.  Talents  are  hidden,  virtues  ignored,  vices  unpunished, 
in  that  multitude  of  men,  unknown  to  one  another,  whom  the 


8o  ROUSSEAU 

seat  of  the  supreme  administration  gathers  together  in  one 
place.  The  chiefs,  overwhehned  with  business,  see  nothing 
themselves;  clerks  rule  the  State.  In  a  word,  the  measures 
that  must  be  taken  to  maintain  the  general  authority,  which  so 
many  officers  at  a  distance  wish  to  evade  or  impose  upon,  ab- 
sorb all  the  public  attention ;  no  regard  for  the  welfare  of  the 
people  remains,  and  scarcely  any  for  their  defence  in  time  of 
need ;  and  thus  a  body  too  huge  for  its  constitution  sinks  and 
perishes,  crushed  by  its  own  weight. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  State  must  secure  a  certain  founda- 
tion, that  it  may  possess  stability  and  resist  the  shocks  which 
it  will  infallibly  experience,  as  well  as  sustain  the  efforts  which 
it  will  be  forced  to  make  in  order  to  maintain  itself;  for  all 
nations  have  a  kind  of  centrifugal  force,  by  which  they  con- 
tinually act  one  against  another,  and  tend  to  aggrandize  them- 
selves at  the  expense  of  their  neighbors,  like  the  vortices  of 
Descartes.  Thus  the  weak  are  in  danger  of  being  quickly 
swallowed  up,  and  none  can  preserve  itself  long  except  by  put- 
ting itself  in  a  kind  of  equilibrium  with  all,  which  renders  the 
compression  almost  equal  everywhere. 

Hence  we  see  that  there  are  reasons  for  expansion  and  rea- 
sons for  contraction ;  and  it  is  not  the  least  of  a  statesman's 
talents  to  find  the  proportion  between  the  two  which  is  most 
advantageous  for  the  preservation  of  the  State.  We  may  say, 
in  general,  that  the  former,  being  only  external  and  relative, 
ought  to  be  subordinated  to  the  others,  which  are  internal  and 
absolute.  A  healthy  and  strong  constitution  is  the  first  thing 
to  be  sought ;  and  we  should- rely  more  on  the  vigor  that  springs 
from  a  good  government  than  on  the  resources  furnished  by  an 
extensive  territory. 

States  have,  however,  been  constituted  in  such  a  way  that 
the  necessity  of  making  conquests  entered  into  their  very  con- 
stitution, and  in  order  to  maintain  themselves  they  were  forced 
to  enlarge  themselves  continually.  Perhaps  they  rejoiced 
greatly  at  this  happy  necessity,  which  nevertheless  revealed  to 
them,  with  the  limit  of  their  greatness,  the  inevitable  moment 
of  their  fall. 

A  body  politic  may  be  measured  in  two  ways,  viz.,  by  the 
extent  of  its  territory,  and  by  the  number  of  its  people ;  and 
there  is  between  these  two  modes  of  measurement  a  suitable 


THE   PEOPLE  8r 

relation  according  to  which  the  State  may  be  assigned  its  true 
dimensions.  It  is  the  men  that  constitute  the  State,  and  it  is 
the  soil  that  sustains  the  men ;  the  due  relation,  then,  is  that 
the  land  should  suffice  for  the  maintenance  of  its  inhabitants, 
and  that  there  should  be  as  many  inhabitants  as  the  land  can 
sustain.  In  this  proportion  is  found  the  maximum  power  of 
a  given  number  of  people ;  for  if  there  is  too  much  land,  the 
care  of  it  is  burdensome,  the  cultivation  inadequate,  and  the 
produce  superfluous,  and  this  is  the  proximate  cause  of  de- 
fensive wars.  If  there  is  not  enough  land,  the  State  is  at  the 
mercy  of  its  neighbors  for  the  additional  quantity ;  and  this 
is  the  proximate  cause  of  ofifensive  wars.  Any  nation  which 
has,  by  its  position,  only  the  alternative  between  commerce  and 
war  is  weak  in  itself ;  it  is  dependent  on  its  neighbors  and  on 
events ;  it  has  only  a  short  and  precarious  existence.  It  con- 
quers and  changes  its  situation,  or  it  is  conquered  and  reduced 
to  nothing.  It  can  preserve  its  freedom  only  by  virtue  of 
being  small  or  great. 

It  is  impossible  to  express  numerically  a  fixed  ratio  between 
the  extent  of  land  and  the  number  of  men  which  are  recipro- 
cally sufficient,  on  account  of  the  differences  that  are  found  in 
the  quality  of  the  soil,  in  its  degrees  of  fertility,  in  the  nature 
of  its  products,  and  in  the  influence  of  climate,  as  well  as  on 
account  of  those  which  we  observe  in  the  constitutions  of  the 
inhabitants,  of  whom  some  consume  little  in  a  fertile  country, 
while  others  consume  much  on  an  unfruitful  soil.  Further, 
attention  must  be  paid  to  the  greater  or  less  fecundity  of  the 
women,  to  the  conditions  of  the  country,  whether  more  or  less 
favorable  to  population,  and  to  the  numbers  which  the  legis- 
lator may  hope  to  draw  thither  by  his  institutions ;  so  that  an 
opinion  should  be  based  not  on  what  is  seen,  but  on  what  is 
foreseen,  while  the  actual  state  of  the  people  should  be  less 
observed  than  that  which  it  ought  naturally  to  attain.  In 
short,  there  are  a  thousand  occasions  on  which  the  particular 
accidents  of  situation  require  or  permit  that  more  territory 
than  appears  necessary  should  be  taken  up.  Thus  men  will 
spread  out  a  good  deal  in  a  mountainous  country,  where  the 
natural  productions,  viz..  woods  and  pastures,  require  less  la- 
bor, where  experience  teaches  that  women  are  more  fecund 


82  ROUSSEAU 

than  in  the  plains,  and  where  with. an  extensive  inclined  sur- 
face there  is  only  a  small  horizontal  base,  which  alone  should 
count  for  vegetation.  On  the  other  hand,  people  may  inhabit 
a  smaller  space  on  the  seashore,  even  among  rocks  and  sands 
that  are  almost  barren,  because  fishing  can,  in  great  measure, 
supply  the  deficiency  in  the  productions  of  the  earth,  because 
men  ought  to  be  more  concentrated  in  order  to  repel  pirates, 
and  because,  further,  it  is  easier  to  relieve  the  country,  by 
means  of  colonies,  of  the  inhabitants  with  which  it  is  over- 
burdened. 

In  order  to  establish  a  nation,  it  is  necessary  to  add  to  these 
conditions  one  which  cannot  supply  the  place  of  any  other, 
but  without  which  they  are  all  useless — it  is  that  the  people 
should  enjoy  abundance  and  peace ;  for  the  time  of  a  State's 
formation  is,  like  that  of  forming  soldiers  in  a  square,  the  time 
when  the  body  is  least  capable  of  resistance  and  most  easy  to 
destroy.  Resistance  would  be  greater  in  a  state  of  absolute 
disorder  than  at  a  moment  of  fermentation,  when  each  is  oc- 
cupied with  his  own  position  and  not  with  the  common  danger. 
Should  a  war,  a  famine,  or  a  sedition  supervene  at  this  critical 
period,  the  State  is  inevitably  overthrown. 

Many  governments,  indeed,  may  be  established  during  such 
storms,  but  then  it  is  these  very  governments  that  destroy 
the  State.  Usurpers  always  bring  about  or  select  troublous 
times  for  passing,  under  cover  of  the  public  agitation,  de- 
structive laws  which  the  people  would  never  adopt  when  sober- 
minded.  The  choice  of  the  moment  for  the  establishment  of 
a  government  is  one  of  the  surest  marks  for  distinguishing  the 
work  of  the  legislator  from  that  of  the  tyrant. 

What  nation,  then,  is  adapted  for  legislation?  That  which 
is  already  united  by  some  bond  of  interest,  origin,  or  conven- 
tion, but  has  not  yet  borne  the  real  yoke  of  the  laws  :  that  which 
has  neither  customs  nor  superstitions  firmly  rooted  ;  that  which 
has  no  fear  of  being  overwhelmed  by  a  sudden  invasion,  but 
which,  without  entering  into  disputes  of  its  neighbors,  can 
single-handed  resist  cither  of  them,  or  aid  one  in  repelling  the 
other;  that  in  which  every  member  can  be  known  by  all,  and 
in  which  there  is  no  necessity  to  lay  on  a  man  a  greater  burden 
than  a  man  can  bear ;  that  which  can  subsist  without  other  na- 


THE  PEOPLE  83 

tions,  and  without  which  every  other  nation  can  subsist ;  * 
that  which  is  neither  rich  nor  poor  and  is  self-sufficing ;  lastly, 
that  which  combines  the  stability  of  an  old  nation  with  the 
docility  of  a  new  one.  The  work  of  legislation  is  rendered 
arduous  not  so  much  by  what  must  be  established  as  by  what 
must  be  destroyed ;  and  that  which  makes  success  so  rare  is 
the  impossibility  of  finding  the  simplicity  of  nature  conjoined 
with  the  necessities  of  society.  All  these  conditions,  it  is  true, 
are  with  difficulty  combined ;  hence  few  well-constituted  States 
are  seen. 

There  is  still  one  country  in  Europe  capable  of  legislation ; 
it  is  the  island  of  Corsica.  The  courage  and  firmness  which 
that  brave  nation  has  exhibited  in  recovering  and  defending 
its  freedom  would  well  deserve  that  some  wise  man  should 
teach  it  how  to  preserve  it.  I  have  some  presentiment  that 
this  small  island  will  one  day  astonish  Europe. 

'  If  of  two  neighboring  nations  one  could  to  do  without  salt  rather  than  buy  it  of  the 
not  subsist  without  the  other,  it  would  be  Mexicans  or  even  accept  it  gratuitously, 
a  very  hard  situation  for  the  first,  and  a  The  wise  Tlascalans  saw  a  trap  hidden  be- 
very  dangerous  one  for  the  second.  Every  nealh  this  generosity.  They  kept  them- 
wise  nation  in  such  a  case  will  endeavor  selves  free ;  and  this  smalt  State,  enclosed 
very  quickly  to  free  the  other  from  this  de-  in  that  great  empire,  was  at  last  the  in* 
pendence.  The  republic  of  Tlascala,  en-  strument  of  its  downfall, 
closed  in  the  empire  of  Mexico,  preferred 


ARISTOTLE    AND    TRAGEDY 


BY 


GOTTHOLD    EPHRAIM    LESSING 


GOTTHOLD  EPHRAIM   LESSING 

1729 — 1781 

Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing  was  born  in  the  little  Saxon  town  of 
Kamenz,  in  1729,  and  received  his  education  at  the  universities  of 
Leipsic  and  Wittenberg.  His  father  intended  him  for  the  ministry, 
but  his  abihty  lay  in  other  directions.  At  the  universities  he  dis- 
played marked  literary  ability.  In  1748  he  went  to  Berlin,  where  he 
succeeded  in  gaining  a  precarious  livelihood  by  his  pen.  As  the  years 
went  on  recognition  came,  and  by  1755,  when  he  published  "  Miss 
Sara  Sampson,"  a  tragedy,  Lessing  had  already  become  a  celebrated 
man,  a  dreaded  critic,  and  an  admired  dramatist  and  poet  of  some 
distinction.  In  1759  he  commenced  the  publication  of  the  "  Literary 
Letters,"  a  series  of  literary  criticisms  of  remarkable  acumen  and 
force,  which  he  continued  during  nearly  seven  years.  Meantime  he 
had  left  Berlin  to  become  the  private  secretary  of  the  Governor  of 
Silesia.  While  at  Breslau,  "  Minna  von  Barnhelm,"  one  of  the  mas- 
terpieces of  the  German  drama,  was  published.  After  his  return  to  Ber- 
lin, in  1766,  "  Laocoon,"  his  masterly  treatise  on  aesthetic  criticism,  was 
given  to  the  world.  In  1767  Lessing  was  called  to  Hamburg  to  assist  in 
establishing  a  stage  for  the  national  drama.  The  result  of  his  activity 
there  caused  him  to  write  his  famous  "  Dramatic  Notes,"  a  series  of  es- 
says that  exerted  a  profound  influence  on  the  German  drama.  They  were 
written  in  Lessing's  best  vein  and  in  the  fulness  of  his  powers.  "  Aris- 
totle and  Tragedy  "  is  a  good  example  of  these  remarkable  essays  as 
well  as  of  Lessing's  style.  In  1770  he  was  appointed  by  the  Duke  of 
Brunswick  librarian  at  Wolfenbiittel,  a  position  he  held  until  his  death 
in  1781.  Here  he  wrote  the  two  excellent  plays,  "  Emilia  Galotti  "  and 
"  Nathan  the  Wise,"  besides  numerous  treatises,  chiefly  on  theological 
questions  and  polemic  in  character. 

The  key-note  of  Lessing's  character  and  writings  is  truth.  Hence 
his  impatience  with  cant  and  hypocrisy,  the  unsparing  severity  dis- 
played in  his  theological  controversies,  and  the  lucidity  of  his  dramatic 
and  literary  criticisms.  As  a  critic  Lessing  may  justly  be  regarded 
as  the  greatest  Germany  has  produced.  Although  not  exclusively 
destructive  in  his  criticisms,  it  was  as  a  critic  of  this  school  that  he 
produced  his  most  lasting  works.  His  dramatic  criticisms  did  much 
toward  the  development  of  the  modern  German  Drama  and  his  literary 
criticisms  prepared  the  way  for  Goethe  and  Schiller.  His  theological 
and  philosophical  writings  are  less  important,  but  they  in  turn  served 
in  preparing  the  way  for  Kant  and  Fichte. 

Lessing's  literary  style  is  distinguished  by  clearness  and  precision, 
in  marked  contrast  to  that  in  vogue  with  German  prose  writers  of 
his  time.  He  avoided  long  and  intricate  sentences  and  constructions. 
"  Write  as  you  speak,"  was  his  motto,  and  in  all  his  writings  he  dis- 
plays a  most  astonishing  power  of  clear  and  concise  statement  and 
a  wealth  of  logical  argmnent  that  make  his  works  models  of  expositorx 
and  argumentative  style. 


86 


ARISTOTLE  AND  TRAGEDY 

CREBILLON  is  known  among  the  French  as  "  the  Ter- 
rible." I  greatly  fear  that  he  has  received  this  name 
more  on  account  of  the  terror  which  should  not  exist 
in  tragedy,  than  on  account  of  that  legitimate  terror  which  the 
philosopher  includes  amongst  the  essentials  of  tragedy. 

And  this  ought  not  to  have  been  named  terror  at  all.  The 
word  used  by  Aristotle  means  fear:  fear  and  pity,  he  says, 
should  be  provoked  by  tragedy,  not  terror  and  pity.  Terror 
is,  it  is  true,  a  species  of  fear  ;  it  is  a  sudden,  overwhelming  fear. 
But  this  very  suddenness,  this  surprise,  which  is  included  in  the 
conception  of  the  term,  clearly  shows  that  those  who  here 
substituted  the  word  terror  for  fear  did  not  understand  to  what 
kind  of  fear  Aristotle  was  referring. 

"  Pity,"  says  Aristotle,  "  demands  a  person  who  suffers  un- 
deservedly, and  fear  requires  him  to  be  one  of  ourselves.  The 
villain  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  and  his  misfortunes 
consequently  do  not  excite  either  pity  or  fear."^ 

Fear,  as  I  have  said,  has  been  called  terror  by  modern  com- 
mentators and  translators ;  and  this  substitution  has  enabled 
them  to  bring  the  most  extraordinary  charges  against  the 
philosopher. 

*'  It  has  not  been  found  possible,"  says  one  of  this  crowd,* 
"  to  agree  as  to  the  explanation  of  terror ;  and  indeed  it  con- 
tains in  every  respect  one  superfluous  link  which  hampers  its 
universality  and  limits  it  too  much.  If  Aristotle,  in  adding 
the  words  '  one  of  ourselves,'  was  merely  thinking  of  the  sim- 
ilarity of  mankind,  in  the  sense  that  the  spectator  and  the  act- 
ing personage  are  both  human  beings,  however  widely  they 
may  differ  from  each  other  in  character,  dignity,  and  rank: 
then  such  an  addition  was  unnecessary,  for  the  fact  was  self- 

1  "  Poetics,"  cap.  xiii. 

•Schmidt,  in  his  Introduction  to  "The  Comic  Theatre." 

87 


88  LESSING 

evident.  If,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  of  opinion  that  terror 
could  only  be  excited  by  virtuous  persons  or  by  such  as  are 
afflicted  with  venial  faults  :  then  he  was  mistaken,  for  common- 
sense  and  experience  are  opposed  to  him.  Terror  undoubt- 
edly springs  from  a  feeling  of  humanity ;  for  every  human 
being  is  subject  to  it,  and  every  human  being  is  touched  by 
this  feeling  at  the  adverse  fortunes  of  a  fellow-creature.  There 
may  possibly  be  persons  who  deny  this  with  regard  to  them- 
selves; but  such  a  denial  would  only  be  a  disavowal  of  their 
natural  sensibiHty,  a  mere  boast  founded  upon  defective  prin- 
ciples, and  therefore  no  argument.  Now  if  a  vicious  person, 
upon  whom  our  attention  is  centred,  meets  with  an  unexpected 
misfortune,  we  lose  sight  of  the  reprobate  and  behold  only  the 
human  being.  The  sight  of  human  suffering  in  general  makes 
us  sad,  and  this  sudden  feeling  of  sadness  which  comes  over  us 
is  terror." 

All  this  is  perfectly  true,  but  it  is  out  of  place.  For  what 
does  it  prove  against  Aristotle?  Nothing  at  all.  Aristotle  is 
not  thinking  of  this  kind  of  terror  when  he  speaks  of  that  fear 
which  can  only  be  evoked  by  one  of  our  fellow-creatures.  Such 
fear,  with  which  we  are  seized  when  we  are  suddenly  brought 
face  to  face  with  a  misfortune  that  threatens  another  person, 
is  a  sympathetic  fear,  and  should  therefore  be  included  in  the 
term  pity.  Aristotle  would  not  say  "  Pity  and  Fear,"  if  by  the 
latter  he  understood  no  more  than  merely  a  modified  form  of 
pity. 

"  Pity,"  says  the  author  of  "  Letters  on  the  Emotions."^  "  is 
a  compound  emotion  consisting  of  love  for  an  object  and  dis- 
pleasure at  its  misfortunes.  The  movements  by  which  pity 
manifests  itself  differ  from  the  simple  symptoms  of  love  as  well 
as  from  those  of  displeasure ;  for  pity  is  a  mere  manifestation. 
But  how  varied  this  manifestation  may  be !  Let  the  one  lim- 
itation of  time  be  but  changed  in  a  commiserated  misfortune, 
and  pity  will  manifest  itself  by  totally  different  signs.  The 
sight  of  Electra,  weeping  over  her  brother's  urn,  fills  us  with 
compassionate  grief;  for  she  thinks  that  the  misfortune  has 
taken  place  and  is  lamenting  the  loss  which  she  has  sustained. 
The  sufferings  of  Pliiloctctes  likewise  call  forth  our  pitv.  hut 
in  this  case  it  is  pity  of  a  somewhat  different  nature;  for  the 

•  Moses  Mendelssohn. 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  89 

afflictions  •vthich  overtake  this  virtuous  man  are  actually  pres- 
ent and  seize  him  before  our  very  eyes.  But  what  do  we  feel 
when  CEdipus  is  seized  with  terror,  as  the  fatal  secret  is  sud- 
denly revealed ;  when  Monime  is  alarmed  at  seeing  the  jealous 
Mithridates  turn  pale ;  when  the  virtuous  Desdemona  becomes 
frightened  as  she  hears  the  threatening  words  of  her  Othello, 
erstwhile  so  tender?  We  still  feel  pity.  But  pitiful  terror, 
pitiful  alarm,  pitiful  fear.  The  movements  are  various ;  but 
the  essence  of  the  emotion  is  in  all  cases  identical.  For  since 
love  is  ever  connected  with  a  willingness  to  put  ourselves  in 
the  place  of  the  person  whom  we  love,  we  must  share  every 
kind  of  misfortune  with  that  person ;  and  this  is  very  expres- 
sively termed  compassion  or  pity.  Why  then  should  not  also 
fear,  terror,  wrath,  jealousy,  revenge — in  fact,  all  kinds  of  un- 
pleasant emotions,  even  envy  not  excepted,  spring  from  pity? 
We  may  hereby  see  how  unskilfully  the  majority  of  critics 
divide  the  tragic  passions  into  terror  and  pity.  Terror  and 
pity !  Is  theatrical  terror  no  pity,  then  ?  For  whom  does  the 
spectator  tremble  when  Merope  draws  the  dagger  upon  her 
own  son?  Certainly  not  for  himself,  but  for  .^^gisthus,  whose 
preservation  he  so  earnestly  desires,  and  for  the  deluded  queen 
who  regards  him  as  the  murderer  of  her  son.  But  if  we  apply 
the  name  of  pity  to  the  mere  displeasure  which  the  present  mis- 
fortunes of  a  fellow-creature  excite  in  us :  then  we  must  draw 
a  distinction  between  pity  properly  so  called,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  not  only  terror,  but  all  other  feelings  communicated  to  us 
by  a  fellow-creature,  on  the  other." 

These  ideas  are  so  correct,  so  clear,  so  perspicuous,  that 
everyone,  it  seems  to  us,  could  and  ought  to  hold  them.  Nev- 
ertheless I  will  not  ascribe  the  acute  observations  of  the  new 
philosopher  to  the  ancient  one ;  I  am  too  well  acquainted  with 
the  former's  contributions  to  the  doctrine  of  mixed  sensations, 
for  the  true  theory  of  which  we  are  indebted  to  him  alone.  But 
what  he  has  explained  so  thoroughly,  Aristotle  may  also,  on 
the  whole,  have  experienced ;  at  all  events  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  Aristotle  must  either  have  believed  that  tragedy  could  and 
should  excite  nothing  but  genuine  pity,  nothing  but  the  dis- 
pleasure experienced  at  the  present  misfortunes  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  which  seems  highly  improbable ;  or  else  he  included 
under  the  term  pity  all  passions  in  general  that  can  be  com- 
municated to  us  by  another.  ,.  ,  „„ 
•^                                                              E— Vol.  GO 


90  LESSING 

For  it  certainly  was  not  Aristotle  who  made  the  division, 
so  justly  censured,  of  the  tragic  passions  into  pity  and  terror. 
He  has  been  misread  and  mistranslated.  He  speaks  of  pity 
and  fear,  not  of  pity  and  terror ;  and  the  fear  to  which  he  refers 
is  not  that  which  an  impending  misfortune  to  another  person 
excites  in  us  on  his  behalf,  but  that  which,  from  our  resem- 
blance to  the  victim,  we  feel  on  our  own  behalf;  it  is  the  fear 
that  the  disasters  which  we  see  threatening  him  may  overtake 
us  also ;  it  is  the  fear  that  we  may  ourselves  become  the  objects 
of  commiseration.  In  a  word:  this  fear  is  pity  referred  back 
to  ourselves. 

Aristotle  always  requires  to  be  interpreted  through  himself. 
If  any  person  were  thinking  of  giving  us  a  new  commentary 
upon  his  "  Poetics,"  which  should  excel  that  of  Dacier,  I  would 
strongly  advise  him,  before  so  doing,  to  read  the  philosopher's 
works  from  beginning  to  end.  He  will  come  across  explana- 
tions bearing  upon  the  art  of  poetry  where  he  least  expects  to 
find  them ;  and  he  must  above  all  things  study  the  treatises  on 
rhetoric  and  ethics.  It  might  indeed  be  supposed  that  the 
schoolmen,  who  had  the  writings  of  Aristotle  at  their  finger 
ends,  would  long  ago  have  discovered  these  explanatory 
passages.  Yet  the  "  Poetics  "  was  the  very  work  to  which 
they  paid  the  least  attention.  They  moreover  lacked  other 
knowledge  without  which  the  explanations  referred  to  could 
not  have  borne  fruit ;  they  were  not  acquainted  with  the  theatre 
and  its  masterpieces. 

The  true  explanation  of  this  fear,  which  Aristotle  mentions 
in  conjunction  with  tragic  pity,  is  to  be  found  in  the  fifth  and 
eighth  chapters  of  the  second  book  of  his  "  Rhetoric."  It 
would  have  been  an  easy  matter  to  remember  these  chapters ; 
yet  not  one  of  his  commentators  seems  to  have  called  them  to 
mind ;  at  any  rate  not  one  has  made  that  use  of  them  which 
they  afford.  For  even  those  who  perceived,  without  their  aid, 
that  this  fear  was  not  the  same  as  compassionate  terror,  might 
still  have  learnt  an  important  fact  from  them — viz..  the  reason 
why  the  Stagyrite  here  combines  pity  with  fear,  why  he  com- 
bines it  with  fear  alone,  and  not  with  any  other  passion  or 
passions.  Of  the  reason  of  this  they  know  nothing,  and  I  for 
my  part  should  like  to  hear  what  answer  their  own  intelligence 
would  suggest  to  them,  if  they  were  asked,  for  example,  the 


ARISTOTLE   AND  TRAGEDY  91 

following  question:  Why  cannot  and  may  not  tragedy  excite 
pity  and  admiration  equally  as  well  as  pity  and  fear  ? 

All,  however,  depends  upon  the  conception  which  Aristotle 
framed  of  pity.  Now  he  was  of  opinion  that  a  misfortune 
which  is  intended  as  the  object  of  our  pity,  must  of  necessity 
be  of  such  a  nature  that  we  are  capable  of  dreading  its  happen- 
ing to  ourselves  also,  or  to  one  of  our  friends.  And  where 
there  was  not  this  fear,  he  argued,  there  could  be  no  pity ;  for 
neither  he  whom  misfortune  had  so  overwhelmed  that  he  saw 
nothing  further  to  fear,  nor  he  who  considered  his  happiness 
so  complete  that  he  could  not  imagine  any  misfortune  over- 
taking him ;  neither  the  desperate  man  nor  the  over-confident 
one  is  in  the  habit  of  feeling  pity  for  others.  He  therefore 
explains  the  fearful  and  the  pitiable  by  means  of  each  other. 
We  find  those  things  fearful,  he  says,  which  would  awaken 
our  pity  if  they  had  befallen,  or  were  about  to  befall,  another 
person ;  and  we  find  those  things  pitiable  which  we  should  fear 
if  they  were  about  to  happen  to  ourselves.  It  is  not  enough, 
therefore,  that  the  sufferer,  for  whom  we  are  to  feel  pity,  may 
not  deserve  his  misfortune,  though  he  may  have  brought  it 
upon  himself  by  his  own  weakness :  his  injured  innocence,  or 
rather  his  error,  for  which  he  is  made  to  pay  too  severe  a  pen- 
alty, would  lose  its  effect  upon  us,  would  fail  to  excite  our  pity, 
unless  we  saw  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  his  calamity  over- 
taking us  also.  Now  this  possibility  arises,  and  it  becomes 
the  more  probable,  if  the  poet  does  not  represent  him  worse 
than  mankind  in  general ;  if  he  lets  him  think  and  act  exactly 
as  we  should  have  thought  and  acted  in  his  place,  or  as  we 
imagine  we  should  have  done ;  if,  in  short,  he  makes  him  of  the 
same  flesh  and  blood  as  ourselves.  It  is  this  resemblance  that 
gives  rise  to  the  fear  that  our  fate  may  as  easily  become  like 
his  as  we  feel  ourselves  to  be  like  him ;  and  it  is  this  fear  that 
serves  as  it  were  to  mature  our  pity. 

Such  were  Aristotle's  thoughts  concerning  pity,  and  bv  their 
aid  alone  can  we  arrive  at  the  true  reason  why,  in  his  definition 
of  tragedy,  fear  was  the  only  emotion  which  he  named  in  con- 
junction with  pity.  It  is  not  that  this  fear  is  a  separate  passion 
independent  of  pity,  which  might  be  excited  now  with  pity, 
and  now  without  it,  in  the  same  wav  as  pity  can  be  excited  now 
with  and  now  without  fear.     This  was  Corneille's  error.     Aris- 


92  LESSING 

totle's  reason  was  that,  in  his  definition  of  pity,  fear  was  of 
necessity  included,  because  nothing  could  awaken  our  pity 
which  did  not  at  the  same  time  excite  our  fear. 

Corneille  had  already  written  all  his  plays  before  he  set  him- 
self to  commentate  upon  the  "  Poetics  "  of  Aristotle.*  For 
half  a  century  he  had  been  working  for  the  theatre,  and  after 
such  experience  he  might  undoubtedly  have  furnished  us  with 
much  valuable  information  concerning  the  ancient  dramatic 
code,  if,  during  the  time  of  his  labors,  he  had  but  studied  it  a 
little  more  diligently.  But  this  he  appears  only  to  have  done 
in  so  far  as  the  mechanical  rules  of  his  art  were  concerned.  In 
the  more  essential  points  he  disregarded  it ;  and  when  he  found 
in  the  end  that  he  had  violated  its  laws,  a  thing  which  he  was 
by  no  means  disposed  to  admit,  he  sought  to  clear  himself  by 
the  help  of  comments,  and  caused  his  pretended  master  to  say 
things  of  which  he  had  never  thought. 

Corneille  had  brought  martyrs  upon  the  stage  and  portrayed 
them  as  the  most  perfect  and  immaculate  of  human  beings ;  he 
had  produced  the  most  repulsive  monsters  in  Prusias,  Phocas, 
and  Cleopatra  ;  and  of  both  these  species  Aristotle  declares  that 
they  are  unsuitable  for  tragedy,  since  neither  of  them  can 
awaken  pity  or  fear.  What  does  Corneille  say  in  answer  to 
this?  How  does  he  contrive  to  prevent  both  his  own  au- 
thority and  that  of  Aristotle  from  being  disparaged  by  this 
contradiction  ?  "  We  can  easily  come  to  terms  with  Aristotle," 
he  says  ;°  "  we  need  only  assume  that  he  did  not  mean  to  main- 
tain that  both  fear  and  pity  were  required  at  the  same  time  to 
effect  the  purification  of  our  passions,  which  according  to  him 
should  be  the  chief  aim  of  tragedy,  but  that  one  of  these  means 
would  suffice.  We  can  find  this  explanation  confirmed  in  his 
own  writings,"  he  continues,  "  if  we  carefully  weigh  the  rea- 
sons given  by  him  for  the  exclusion  of  those  events  which  he 
censures  in  tragedies.  He  never  says :  this  or  that  event  is  out 
of  place  in  tragedy  because  it  merely  awakens  pity,  and  not 
fear ;  or  again,  such  a  thing  is  intolerable  because  it  simply 
produces  fear,  without  calling  forth  pity.     No ;  he  excludes 

*  He    says:     "  Je    hasarderai    f^uclqne  so  that  in  his  commentaries  upon  Aris* 

cho«e  sur  cinquante  ans  de  travail  p*)ur  telle   he  was  certainly  able  to  have  an 

la    sri^ne,"    in    his    fllssert.ition    on    flic  ej'c  to  all  his  plays. 

Drama.     His  first  play,  "  M/'life,"  dates  »"  II    est    a'tsi    de    nou«   accommoder 

from  1625,  and  his  last,  "  Surrna,"  from  avec  Aristote,"  etc. 
1675.     Ttiis   makes   exactly    fifty    years. 


ARISTOTLE   AND  TRAGEDY  93 

such  events  because,  as  he  says,  they  fail  to  excite  either  pity 
or  fear;  and  he  thereby  gives  us  to  understand  that  he  finds 
them  unsuitable  because  the  one  is  wanting  as  well  as  the 
other,  and  that  he  would  not  condemn  them  if  they  did  but 
produce  one  of  these  effects." 

Now  this  it  utterly  wrong.  And  I  cannot  understand  why 
Dacier,  who,  as  a  rule,  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  false  inter- 
pretations which  Corneille  tried  to  place  upon  the  text  of  Aris- 
totle to  suit  his  own  purpose,  should  have  overlooked  this,  the 
worst  example  of  all.  Yet,  after  all,  how  could  he  help  over- 
looking it,  since  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  study  the  philoso- 
pher's definition  of  pity?  Corneille's  ideas  on  this  point  are, 
as  I  have  said,  utterly  wrong.  Aristotle  cannot  have  meant 
anything  of  the  kind,  or  else  we  must  believe  that  he  could 
have  so  far  forgotten  his  own  definitions  as  to  contradict  him- 
self in  the  most  flagrant  manner.  If,  according  to  his  doctrine, 
no  misfortune  that  befalls  another  can  excite  our  pity,  unless 
we  are  afraid  that  it  may  also  overtake  ourselves :  then  no  ac- 
tion in  tragedy,  which  could  only  excite  pity,  and  not  fear, 
would  have  appeared  suitable  to  him ;  for  he  deemed  the  thing 
itself  an  impossibility.  Such  actions  did  not  exist  for  him ;  on 
the  contrary,  as  soon  as  they  reached  a  pitch  at  which  they 
were  capable  of  awakening  our  pity,  they  must,  he  opined,  also 
awaken  fear  for  ourselves ;  or  rather,  it  was  only  by  means  of 
this  fear  that  they  called  forth  our  pity.  Still  less  could  he 
conceive  of  an  action  in  a  tragedy  which  could  awaken  fear  for 
ourselves  without  at  the  same  time  calling  forth  our  pity ;  for 
he  was  convinced  that  anything  which  awakens  in  us  fear  for 
ourselves,  must  also  call  forth  our  pity,  as  soon  as  we  see  others 
threatened  or  overtaken  by  it ;  and  this  is  precisely  what  hap- 
pens in  tragedy,  where  we  see  all  the  evils  which  we  fear,  hap- 
pening not  to  ourselves,  but  to  others. 

In  speaking  of  those  actions  which  are  unsuitable  for  trag- 
edy, Aristotle,  it  is  true,  avails  himself  more  than  once  of  the 
expression  that  they  excite  neither  pity  nor  fear.  Yet  if  Cor- 
neille has  allowed  himself  to  be  misled  by  this  neither  .  .  .  nor, 
so  much  the  worse  for  him.  These  disjunctive  particles  do 
not  always  express  what  he  intends  them  to  express.  For  if 
we  use  them  to  deny  two  or  more  properties  of  an  object,  the 
existence  of  the  object,  notwithstanding  that  one  or  other  of 


94 


LESSING 


these  properties  is  wanting  to  it,  depends  on  whether  the  latter 
can  be  as  easily  separated  in  nature  as  we  separate  them  in  the 
abstract  by  means  of  symboHc  expressions.  If,  for  example, 
we  say,  in  speaking  of  a  woman,  that  she  has  neither  beauty 
nor  wit,  we  certainly  wish  to  convey  that  we  should  be  satisfied 
if  she  possessed  either  of  these  qualities ;  for  wit  and  beauty 
cannot  only  be  separated  in  thought,  but  they  are  also  separate 
in  reality.  But  if  we  say :  "  This  man  believes  in  neither 
heaven  nor  hell,"  do  we  also  wish  to  imply  that  we  should  be 
satisfied  if  he  did  but  believe  in  one  of  the  two ;  if  he  believed 
in  heaven,  but  not  in  hell ;  or  in  hell,  but  not  in  heaven  ?  Surely 
not ;  for  he  who  believes  in  the  one  must  of  necessity  believe  in 
the  other  also.  Heaven  and  hell,  punishment  and  reward,  are 
correlative  terms ;  if  the  one  exists  so  must  the  other.  Or,  to 
borrow  an  example  from  a  sister  art,  if  we  say :  "  This  painting 
is  worthless ;  it  has  neither  outline  nor  color,"  do  we  wish  it 
to  be  inferred  that  there  could  be  such  a  thing  as  a  good  paint- 
ing possessing  only  one  of  these  properties  ?  All  this  is  very 
clear. 

But  what  if  Aristotle's  definition  of  pity  were  false?  What 
if  we  found  that  we  could  also  feel  pity  for  evils  and  calamities 
which  we  have  in  nowise  to  fear  for  ourselves  ? 

Fear  for  ourselves  is  not  necessary,  it  is  true,  to  produce  in 
us  a  feeling  of  displeasure  at  the  physical  suffering  of  a  person 
whom  we  love.  Such  displeasure  arises  simply  from  our  per- 
ception of  the  imperfection,  just  as  our  love  arises  from  that 
of  the  perfections  of  the  individual ;  and  when  these  feelings  of 
pleasure  and  displeasure  are  united,  they  give  rise  to  that 
mixed  feeling  which  we  term  pity. 

Yet  even  then,  I  do  not  think  that  Aristotle's  position  is  at 
all  weakened. 

For  although  we  can  feel  pity  for  others  without  experienc- 
ing any  fear  for  ourselves,  it  is  indisputable  that  our  pity,  when 
accompanied  by  such  a  fear,  becomes  much  stronger  and  more 
vivid  than  it  could  otherwise  be.  And  what  is  there  to  prevent 
us  from  assuming  that  the  mixed  sensation  which  we  feel  on 
beholding  the  physical  suffering  of  a  beloved  object,  can  only 
by  the  addition  of  fear  for  ourselves  attain  a  sufficient  degree 
of  intensity  to  deserve  the  name  of  an  efTcctive  force  (Affckt). 

This  is  precisely  what  Aristotle  assumed.     He  did  not  re- 


ARISTOTLE   AND  TRAGEDY 


95 


gard  pity  according  to  its  primary  emotions ;  he  regarded  it 
merely  as  an  effective  force  (Affckt).  Without  mistaking  the 
former,  he  only  denied  to  the  spark  the  name  of  flame.  Com- 
passionate emotions,  unaccompanied  by  fear  for  ourselves,  he 
terms  philanthropy ;  and  he  reserves  the  name  of  pity  for  those 
stronger  emotions  of  the  same  kind,  w^hich  are  combined  with 
fear  for  ourselves.  According  to  him,  therefore,  the  misfor- 
tunes of  a  villain  will  excite  neither  our  pity  nor  our  fear ;  yet 
he  does  not  on  this  account  deny  him  all  power  of  moving 
us.  Even  the  villain  is  still  a  human  being  possessing,  in  spite 
of  all  his  moral  imperfections,  enough  perfections  to  make  us 
rather  hope  against  his  ruin  or  destruction,  and  to  awaken  in 
us,  if  we  behold  it,  something  akin  to  pity,  the  rudiments,  as 
it  were,  of  pity.  But  this  rudimentary  feeling,  as  I  have  al- 
ready pointed  out,  he  does  not  call  pity  but  philanthropy.  "  A 
villain,"  he  tells  us,  "  must  never  be  allowed  to  pass  from  a 
state  of  adversity  to  one  of  prosperity ;  for  nothing  could  be 
more  untragical ;  he  would  then  lack  all  that  he  should  have, 
and  would  call  forth  neither  philanthropy,  nor  pity,  nor  fear. 
Neither  must  it  be  an  utter  villain  who  is  plunged  from  a  state 
of  prosperity  into  one  of  adversity ;  for  such  an  event  might,  it 
is  true,  excite  philanthropy,  but  not  pity,  nor  yet  fear."  I 
know  of  nothing  more  feeble  and  absurd  than  the  common 
rendering  of  this  word  "  philanthropy."  Its  adjective  is  usu- 
ally translated  into  Latin  by  hominihus  gratum;  into  French  by 
ce  qui  pent  faire  qiielque  plaisir;  and  into  German  by  was 
Vergniigen  machen  kann  {"  what  may  give  pleasure  ").  Goul- 
ston  alone,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  appears  to  have  caught  the 
philosopher's  meaning;  he  translates  (f)i\,dv6poi7rov  by  quod 
humanitatis  sensu  tangat.  For  this  word  philanthropy  is  used 
to  signify  that  feeling  which  the  misfortunes  even  of  a  villain 
can  awaken ;  it  is  not  the  satisfaction  which  we  feel  at  his  well- 
merited  punishment,  but  the  common  feeling  of  human  sym- 
pathy which  comes  over  us  when  we  see  him  suffer,  even 
though  we  are  given  to  understand  that  his  suffering  is  amply 
deserved.  Herr  Curtius  would  indeed  confine  this  feeling  of 
pity  for  an  unfortunate  villain  to  one  section  only  of  the  evils 
to  which  he  is  liable.  "  Those  accidents  to  the  vicious,"  he 
says,  "  which  excite  in  us  neither  terror  nor  pity,  must  be  the 
results  of  their  vices ;  for,  were  they  to  happen  to  them  by 


96  LESSING 

chance,  or  undeservedly,  the  sufferers  would  still  retain  in  the 
hearts  of  the  spectators  the  privileges  of  humanity,  which  does 
not  withhold  its  pity  from  a  villain  who  suffers  innocently." 
But  he  does  not  appear  to  have  considered  this  sufficiently. 
For  even  in  cases  where  the  misfortune  that  overtakes  the  vil- 
lain is  the  direct  outcome  of  his  crime,  we  cannot  forbear  suf- 
fering with  him  at  the  sight  of  his  punishment.  "  Behold  the 
mob,"  says  the  author  of  "  Letters  on  the  Emotions,"  "  as  they 
crowd  closely  around  the  condemned  criminal !  They  have 
heard  of  all  the  outrages  which  the  villain  has  committed ;  they 
have  been  horrified  at  his  conduct,  and  have  perhaps  even 
hated  him.  Now  he  is  dragged,  pale  and  fainting,  to  the  ter- 
rible scaffold.  The  crowd  press  forward,  some  stand  on  tip- 
toe, others  climb  on  to  the  roofs,  to  see  how  his  features  change 
at  the  approach  of  death.  His  sentence  is  pronounced;  the 
executioner  steps  forward ;  another  moment  and  all  will  be 
over.  How  earnestly  all  the  spectators  now  wish  that  he 
might  be  pardoned!  What?  That  same  person,  the  object 
of  their  hatred,  whom  but  a  moment  before  they  would  them- 
selves have  condemned  to  death  ?  What  has  happened  to  send 
this  sudden  ray  of  human  love  through  their  hearts?  Is  it  not 
his  approaching  doom,  the  aspect  of  the  direst  physical  calam- 
ity, that,  as  it  were,  reconciles  us  to  the  worst  offender  and 
secures  him  our  affection?  Without  love  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  feel  pity  for  his  fate." 

And  it  is  this  very  love  for  our  fellow-creatures,  I  say,  which 
is  never  entirely  absent  from  our  hearts,  which,  hidden  beneath 
other  and  stronger  emotions,  lies  smouldering  unceasingly, 
and  needs  but  a  favorable  gust,  so  to  speak,  of  misfortune, 
pain,  or  crime,  to  fan  it  into  a  flame  of  pity ;  this  very  love  it 
is  that  Aristotle  understands  under  the  name  of  philanthropy. 
We  are  right  in  looking  upon  it  as  a  kind  of  pity.  But  neither 
was  Aristotle  wrong  in  giving  it  a  separate  name,  to  distin- 
guish it,  as  I  have  said,  from  the  highest  grade  of  compassion- 
ate emotions,  in  which  the  addition  of  a  probable  fear  for  our- 
selves converts  those  emotions  into  effective  forces  (Affekt). 

I  must  here  meet  another  objection.  If  Aristotle  conceived 
of  the  effectiveness  (Affekt)  of  pity  as  being  necessarily  com- 
bined with  fear  for  ourselves,  what  necessity  was  there  for  him 
to  make  special  mention  of  fear?     The  word  pity  already  in- 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  97 

eluded  it,  and  it  would  have  been  sufficient  for  him  to  say : 
tragedy  ought  to  effect  the  purification  of  our  passions  by 
exciting  our  pity.  For  the  addition  of  the  word  fear  does  not 
alter  the  sense,  and  only  makes  that  which  he  says  ambiguous 
and  uncertain. 

I  answer:  if  Aristotle  had  merely  wished  to  teach  us  what 
passions  can  and  ought  to  be  awakened  by  tragedy,  he  might 
indeed  have  omitted  all  mention  of  fear,  and  would  no  doubt 
have  done  so,  for  no  philosopher  was  ever  more  sparing  of 
his  words  than  he.  But  he  wanted  to  tell  us  at  the  same  time 
what  passions  ought  to  be  purified  by  means  of  those  which 
tragedy  awakens  in  us ;  and  for  this  purpose  he  was  obliged  to 
include  fear.  For  although,  according  to  him,  the  effective 
power  {Affekt)  of  pity  cannot  but  be  connected  with  fear  for 
ourselves  both  within  and  without  the  theatre;  although  fear 
is  a  necessary  ingredient  of  pity ;  yet  the  converse  does  not 
hold  good,  and  pity  for  others  is  no  ingredient  of  fear  for  our- 
selves. As  soon  as  the  tragedy  is  over,  our  pity  ceases ;  and 
of  all  the  emotions  which  we  have  experienced,  none  remains 
save  the  possible  fear  which  the  misfortunes  we  have  pitied 
have  led  us  to  entertain  for  ourselves.  This  fear  we  retain ; 
and  whereas  before,  as  an  ingredient  of  pity,  it  helped  to 
purify  our  pity,  it  now  helps,  as  an  emotion  continuing  inde- 
pendently and  by  itself,  to  purify  itself.  Consequently,  in 
order  to  show  that  it  can  and  does  act  thus,  Aristotle  found 
it  necessary  to  mention  it  separately. 

It  is  undeniable  that  Aristotle  never  intended  to  give  a  strict 
logical  definition  of  a  tragedy.  For  instead  of  confining  him- 
self merely  to  those  properties  which,  are  essential  to  it,  he  has 
included  several  others  which  are  purely  accidental  to  it,  and 
which  had  been  rendered  necessary  by  the  customs  of  his  time. 
But,  leaving  these  aside  and  reducing  the  remaining  character- 
istics to  their  simplest  form,  we  shall  arrive  at  a  concise  and 
exact  definition,  viz.,  that  a  tragedy  is,  in  a  word,  a  poem 
which  excites  pity.  According  to  its  genus,  it  is  the  imitation 
of  an  action,  like  the  epic  and  the  comedy ;  but  according  to 
its  species,  it  is  the  imitation  of  an  action  deserving  of  pity. 
From  these  two  conceptions  all  its  rules  may  be  clearly  de- 
duced, and  even  its  dramatic  form  may  be  determined  by  them. 

This  latter  statement  may  be  doubted.    At  all  events  I  know 


98  LESSING 

of  no  critic  who  ever  thought  of  attempting  this.  They  all 
look  upon  the  dramatic  form  of  a  tragedy  as  something  tra- 
ditional, which  is  what  it  is  simply  because  it  happens  to  be  so, 
and  which  is  left  so  because  it  is  found  to  be  good.  Aristotle 
alone  has  discerned  the  reason  of  it ;  but  in  his  definition  he 
assumes  it  as  understood  instead  of  pointing  it  out  clearly. 
"  A  tragedy,"  he  tells  us,  "  is  the  imitation  of  an  action  which, 
not  by  means  of  narration,  but  by  means  of  pity  and  fear, 
serves  to  effect  the  purification  of  these  and  similar  passions." 
These  are  his  actual  words.  Who  could  help  noticing  here 
the  curious  antithesis,  "  not  by  means  of  narration,  but  by 
means  of  pity  and  fear  "  ?  Pity  and  fear  are  the  means  em- 
ployed by  tragedy  to  attain  its  end,  and  the  narration  can  only 
refer  to  the  manner  in  which  these  means  are  employed  or 
avoided.  Would  not  Aristotle,  therefore,  appear  to  have 
omitted  something  here?  Is  not  the  proper  antithesis  of  the 
narration,  namely,  the  dramatic  form,  manifestly  wanting? 
Now,  how  do  the  translators  repair  this  omission?  Some 
manage  carefully  to  circumvent  it ;  others  fill  it  in,  but  only 
with  words.  They  all  look  upon  it  as  nothing  but  a  carelessly 
worded  sentence,  to  which  they  do  not  consider  themselves 
bound  to  adhere,  provided  they  convey  the  philosopher's 
meaning.  Dacier's  translation  runs  as  follows :  "  d'une  action 
■ — qjii,  sans  le  secours  de  la  narration,  par  le  moyen  de  la  com- 
passion et  de  la  terreiir"  etc.  Curtius  says,  "  of  an  action, 
which  not  by  the  poet's  narration,  but  (by  the  representation 
of  the  action  itself)  by  means  of  terror  and  pity  serves  to  purify 
us  of  the  faults  in  the  passions  represented."  Quite  so !  They 
both  say  what  Aristotle  wishes  to  convey ;  only  they  do  not 
say  it  as  he  says  it.  Yet  this  "  as  "  is  of  importance ;  for  the 
sentence  is  not  really  so  carelessly  worded  as  one  might  im- 
agine. Briefly  stated,  the  matter  stands  as  follows :  Aristotle 
found  that  pity  of  necessity  demands  some  present  misfortune; 
that  misfortunes  which  have  happened  long  ago  or  may  happen 
in  the  distant  future  either  fail  to  awaken  our  compassion  alto- 
gether or  else  awaken  it  to  a  far  lesser  degree  than  would  a 
present  misfortune ;  that  it  is  consequently  necessary  to  repre- 
sent the  action  which  is  to  excite  our  pity,  not  as  having  al- 
ready occurred,  that  is  to  say,  in  a  narrative  form,  but  as  actu- 
ally occurring,  that  is  to  say,  in  a  dramatic  form.     And  this 


ARISTOTLE   AND  TRAGEDY  .  99 

fact,  that  our  pity  is  hardly,  if  at  all,  awakened  by  the  narra- 
tion, but  is  almost  entirely  aroused  by  the  actual  sight ;  this 
fact  alone  justified  him  in  substituting  the  thing  itself  in  his 
definition  in  place  of  the  form  of  the  thing,  because  the  thing 
itself  is  only  capable  of  this  one  form.  Had  he  considered  it 
possible  that  our  pity  could  also  be  awakened  by  the  narration, 
he  would  indeed  have  been  guilty  of  an  important  omission  in 
saying,  "  not  by  means  of  narration,  but  by  means  of  pity  and 
fear."  Being  convinced,  however,  that  in  representation,  pity 
and  fear  can  only  be  excited  by  means  of  the  dramatic  form, 
he  was  justified  in  making  that  omission  for  the  sake  of  brevity. 
I  refer  my  readers  to  the  ninth  chapter  of  the  second  book  of 
his  "  Rhetoric." 

And  lastly,  as  regards  the  moral  purpose  which  Aristotle 
assigns  to  tragedy  and  which  he  thought  it  necessary  to  in- 
clude in  his  definition  of  the  same,  the  controversies  to  which 
it  has  given  rise,  especially  in  modern  times,  are  well  known. 
Now  I  am  confident  of  being  able  to  prove  that  all  who  have 
declared  themselves  against  it  have  failed  to  grasp  Aristotle's 
meaning.  They  have  invested  him  with  their  own  particular 
views,  without  knowing  for  certain  what  his  views  were.  They 
combat  strange  notions  which  originate  from  themselves,  and 
in  refuting  the  emanations  of  their  own  brains  they  imagine 
that  they  incontrovertibly  confute  the  philosopher.  I  cannot 
discuss  this  matter  in  detail  here.  But  in  order  not  to  appear 
to  speak  without  proof,  I  will  add  two  observations. 

I.  They  make  Aristotle  say:  "  Tragedy  should,  by  means  of 
terror  and  pity,  purify  us  from  the  faults  of  the  passions  repre- 
sented." The  passions  represented?  If,  therefore,  the  hero 
meets  with  misfortune  owing  to  his  curiosity,  his  ambition,  his 
love,  or  his  wrath :  then  our  curiosity,  ambition,  love  or  wrath, 
is  the  passion  which  the  tragedy  is  to  purify?  Aristotle 
thought  nothing  of  the  kind.  And  so  these  gentlemen  go  on 
disputing;  their  imagination  transforms  windmills  into  gi- 
ants ;  confident  in  their  victory,  they  tilt  at  them,  nor  do  they 
pay  the  slightest  heed  to  Sancho,  who  has  only  common-sense 
to  commend  him.  and  who,  seated  upon  his  more  cautious 
quadruped,  calls  after  them  urging  them  not  to  be  over-hasty, 
but  to  first  look  carefully  around  them.  Tatv  tolovtcov  iradrf- 
fiaTwv,  says  Aristotle ;  and  that  does  not  mean  "  the  passions 


lOO  LESSING 

represented  " ;  they  should  have  translated  it  by  "  these  and 
similar  ones,"  or  "  the  passions  awakened."  The  toi^vtcop  re- 
fers solely  to  the  preceding  "  pity  and  fear  " ;  tragedy  is  to 
excite  our  pity  and  our  fear,  in  order  to  purify  merely  these 
and  similar  passions,  but  not  all  passions  without  distinction. 
He,  however,  uses  the  word  rotovTcov,  and  not  tovtwv  ;  he  says 
"  these  and  similar,"  and  not  simply  ''  these,"  in  order  to  show 
that  by  the  term  pity  he  understands  not  merely  pity  properly 
so  called,  but  all  philanthropic  feelings  in  general,  and  like- 
wise, by  the  term  fear,  not  merely  the  displeasure  with  which 
we  anticipate  an  impending  misfortune,  but  also  every  kind  of 
displeasure  which  is  allied  to  it,  the  displeasure  at  present  and 
past  misfortunes,  sorrows,  and  griefs.  Thus  the  pity  and  the 
fear  excited  by  tragedy  are  to  purify  our  pity  and  our  fear  in 
a  widened  sense ;  they  are,  however,  to  purify  these  alone,  and 
no  other  passions. 

Useful  lessons  and  examples,  serving  to  purify  other  pas- 
sions also,  may,  it  is  true,  be  found  in  tragedy  ;  but  these  do  not 
form  part  of  its  aim ;  it  shares  them  in  common  with  the  epic 
and  the  comedy,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  poem,  an  imitation  of  an 
action  in  general,  but  not  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  tragedy,  an  imita- 
tion of  an  action  deserving  of  pity  in  particular.  All  species 
of  poetry  aim  at  making  us  better  than  we  are ;  it  is  a  la- 
mentable thing  to  have  to  prove  this  first,  and  still  more  so  to 
find  even  poets  who  doubt  it.  But  every  species  of  poetry  can- 
not better  everything,  or  at  any  rate  it  cannot  better  all  things 
equally ;  but  that  direction  in  which  each  is  best  capable  of  ef- 
fecting improvement,  and  in  which  no  other  species  can  do  so 
to  the  same  degree,  that,  and  that  alone,  forms  its  peculiar  aim. 

2.  Seeing  that  Aristotle's  opponents  were  not  careful  to 
observe  what  passions  he  considered  that  tragedy  should  purify 
in  us  by  means  of  pity  and  fear :  it  was  but  natural  that  they 
should  misinterpret  the  purification  itself.  At  the  end  of  his 
"  Politics,"  where  he  speaks  of  the  purification  of  the  passions 
by  means  of  music,  Aristotle  promises  to  give  a  fuller  account 
of  this  purification  in  his  "  Poetics."  "  Since,  however,"  says 
Corneille,  "  there  is  no  mention  of  it  in  this  work,  the  ma- 
jority of  his  commentators  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
it  must  have  reached  us  in  an  incomplete  form."  No  mention 
of  it?     For  my  part,  I  think  that  even  in  what  remains  to  us  of 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  loi 

his  "  Poetics,"  be  it  much  or  little,  there  can  be  found  all  that 
he  deemed  it  necessary  to  say  on  this  subject  to  anyone  not 
altogether  unacquainted  with  his  other  philosophical  writings. 
Corneille  himself  noticed  one  passage  which  he  thought  suf- 
ficiently clear  to  enable  us  to  discover  the  manner  in  which  a 
purification  of  the  passions  is  effected  by  tragedy,  viz.,  the 
passage  in  which  Aristotle  says :  "  Pity  demands  an  innocent 
sufferer,  and  fear  one  of  our  fellow-creatures."  Now  this 
passage  is  a  very  important  one ;  only  Corneille  made  a  wrong 
use  of  it,  and  he  could  hardly  help  doing  so,  seeing  that  his 
thoughts  were  running  on  the  purification  of  the  passions  in 
general.  "  Our  pity  for  a  misfortune,"  he  says,  "  with  which 
we  see  a  fellow-creature  afflicted,  awakens  a  fear  in  us  lest 
a  similar  misfortune  overtake  ourselves;  this  fear  awakens  a 
desire  to  evade  it,  and  this  desire  an  endeavor  to  purify,  to 
moderate,  to  ameliorate,  and  even  to  eradicate  entirely  that 
passion  owing  to  which  the  object  of  our  pity  meets  with  the 
misfortune  before  our  very  eyes.  For  our  common-sense  tells 
us  that  the  cause  must  be  removed  if  the  effect  is  to  be 
avoided."  But  this  reasoning,  whereby  fear  is  made  the  mere 
instrument  with  which  pity  effects  a  purification  of  the  pas- 
sions, is  false  and  cannot  possibly  be  what  Aristotle  wished  to 
convey.  For  in  that  case  tragedy  would  be  capable  of  purify- 
ing all  the  passions  except  the  very  two  which  Aristotle  ex- 
pressly tells  us  it  ought  to  purify.  It  w^ould  be  capable  of  puri- 
fying our  wrath,  our  curiosity,  our  envy,  our  ambition,  our 
hatred  and  our  love,  accordingly  as  it  is  the  one  or  the  other 
of  these  passions  that  has  brought  misfortune  upon  the  object 
of  our  pity.  Only  our  pity  and  our  fear  would  it  be  unable 
to  purify.  For  pity  and  fear  are  the  passions  which  we,  and 
not  the  acting  personages,  feel  in  tragedy;  they  are  the  pas- 
sions by  means  of  which  the  acting  personages  move  us ;  they 
are  not  the  passions  which  lead  to  their  own  misfortune.  I 
am,  of  course,  quite  aware  that  there  might  be  a  play  in  which 
they  perform  both  functions.  But  I  have  never  yet  come 
across  one  in  which  the  suffering  person  was  plunged  into  mis- 
fortune by  means  of  misconceived  pity  or  misconceived  fear. 
And  yet  such  a  play  would  be  the  only  one  embodying,  accord- 
ing to  Corneille's  interpretation,  the  ideas  which  Aristotle  ap- 
plied to  all  tragedies ;  and  even  there  those  ideas  would  not  be 


I02  LESSING 

carried  into  practice  in  the  way  demanded  by  the  latter.  Such 
a  play  would  form,  as  it  were,  the  point  at  which  two  inclined 
straight  hnes  intersect  never  to  meet  again  in  all  eternity. 
Dacier  could  not  go  so  far  wrong  in  interpreting  Aristotle's 
meaning.  He  was  bound  to  pay  more  attention  to  the  words 
of  his  author,  and  these  distinctly  state  that  our  pity  and  our 
fear  are  to  be  purified  by  the  pity  and  the  fear  awakened  by 
tragedy.  But  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  the  purpose  of  tragedy 
would  be  very  insignificant  if  it  were  merely  confined  to  these 
limitations,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded,  by  Corneille's 
explanation,  to  assign  to  it  a  similar  purification  of  all  the  other 
passions.  And  when  Corneille,  for  his  part,  denied  this  and 
proved  by  examples  that  he  held  it  to  be  a  beautiful  thought 
rather  than  a  thing  generally  attainable,  Dacier  had  to  accept 
these  same  examples,  and  thus  found  himself  in  such  straits 
that  he  was  forced  to  make  the  most  violent  twists  and  turns 
to  extricate  himself  and  his  Aristotle.  I  say  his  Aristotle ;  for 
the  real  one  stands  in  no  need  of  such  twists  and  turns.  To 
repeat  it  once  again,  the  latter  thought  of  no  other  passions 
which  should  be  purified  in  tragedy  by  means  of  pity  and  fear, 
save  only  pity  and  fear  themselves ;  and  it  was  a  matter  of  in- 
diflference  to  him  whether  a  tragedy  contributed  much  or  little 
to  the  purification  of  the  rest  of  the  passions.  Dacier  should 
have  confined  himself  to  that  purification  of  which  Aristotle 
speaks ;  but  in  that  case  he  would  certainly  have  had  to  com- 
bine it  with  a  broader  conception.  "  It  is  not  difficult  to  ex- 
plain," he  tells  us,  "  how  tragedy  excites  pity  and  fear  in  order 
to  purify  pity  and  fear.  It  excites  these  passions  by  displaying 
to  us  the  .misfortunes  into  which  our  fellow-creatures  have 
been  plunged  through  unpremeditated  faults ;  and  it  purifies 
them  by  acquainting  us  with  these  misfortunes  and  by  teaching 
us  neither  to  fear  them  too  much,  nor  to  be  too  much  affected 
by  them,  if  they  should  happen  to  ourselves.  It  enables  per- 
sons to  bear  the  most  untoward  accidents  bravely,  and  causes 
the  most  wretched  to  deem  themselves  fortunate  when  they 
compare  their  woes  with  the  still  greater  ones  represented  in 
tragedy.  For  in  what  condition  could  a  man  be  found  who, 
on  beholding  an  Qldipus,  a  Philoctctes,  or  an  Orestes,  would 
not  confess  that  all  the  evils  which  he  has  to  suffer  are  as  noth- 
ing when  compared  to  those  which  afflict  these  men?  "     This 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY 


^03 


is  quite  true;  and  the  explanation  cannot  have  cost  Dacier 
mucii  reflection.  He  found  it  almost  word  for  word  in  one  of 
the  Stoics  who  always  had  an  eye  to  apathy.  Without  urging 
that  the  feeling  of  our  own  woe  does  not  leave  much  room  for 
pity,  and  that  consequently  in  the  case  of  a  sufferer  whose  pity 
cannot  be  awakened,  the  purification  or  diminution  of  his  Sfir- 
row  cannot  be  brought  about  by  pity:  I  will  allow  all  his  re- 
marks to  hold  good.  I  would  only  ask :  to  what  do  all  his 
statements  amount?  Has  he  said  anything  further  than  that 
pity  purifies  our  fear  ?  Certainly  not ;  and  yet  this  is  but  a 
quarter  of  what  Aristotle  intends  to  convey.  For  when  the 
latter  asserts  that  tragedy  excites  pity  and  fear  in  order  to 
purify  pity  and  fear,  surely  anyone  can  see  that  this  means  far 
more  than  Dacier  has  thought  it  advisable  to  state.  Accord- 
ing to  the  different  combinations  of  these  various  conceptions, 
if  it  is  attempted  to  give  the  entire  meaning  of  Aristotle,  it 
must  be  shown  successively  (i)  how  tragic  pity  can,  and  in 
reality  does,  purify  our  pity;  (2)  how  tragic  fear  purifies  our 
fear;  (3)  how  tragic  pity  purifies  our  fear;  and  (4)  how  tragic 
fear  purifies  our  pity.  Now  Dacier  confined  himself  merely  to 
the  third  combination,  and  even  this  one  he  did  not  treat  care- 
fully, but  left  it  only  half  explained.  For  if  an  attempt  is  made 
to  arrive  at  a  correct  and  complete  conception  of  the  Aristo- 
telian doctrine  of  the  purification  of  the  passions,  it  will  be 
found  that  each  of  the  four  combinations  above  mentioned  in- 
cludes in  it  a  two-fold  contingency,  which  may  be  briefly  stated 
as  follows.  Since  the  purification  rests  upon  nothing  else  but 
the  transformation  of  passions  into  virtuous  habits,  and  since, 
according  to  our  philosopher,  every  virtue  is  situated  midway 
between  two  extremes ;  it  follow^s  that  tragedy,  if  it  is  to  trans- 
form our  pity  into  a  virtue,  must  be  able  to  purify  us  from  the 
two  extremes  of  pity;  the  same  applies  in  the  case  of  fear. 
Tragic  pity  must  not  only  purify  the  soul  of  him  v^ho  feels  too 
much  pity,  but  also,  of  him  who  feels  too  little.  Tragic  fear 
must  not  only  purify  the  soul  of  him  who  fears  no  manner  of 
misfortune,  but  also  of  him  who  is  afraid  of  every  misfortune, 
however  distant  and  improbable  it  may  be.  In  the  same  way, 
tragic  pity,  in  regard  to  fear,  must  steer  between  this  too  much 
and  this  too  little  ;  and  conversely,  tragic  fear  in  regard  to  pity. 
Dacier,  as  I  have  said,  has  only  shown  how  tragic  pity  may 


104  LESSING 

moderate  excessive  fear,  but  not  how  its  entire  absence  may 
be  remedied,  nor  how  it  may  be  wholesomely  increased  in  him 
who  has  too  little  of  it ;  not  to  mention  that  he  has  omitted  to 
say  anything  of  the  rest.  Those  who  came  after  him  have  not 
in  the  least  repaired  his  omissions;  but  in  order  to  settle  the 
dispute  concerning  the  utility  of  tragedy  in  their  own  minds, 
they  have  drawn  matters  into  it  which  apply  to  poetry  in  gen- 
eral, but  in  nowise  to  tragedy  as  such  in  particular ;  they  have 
maintained,  for  instance,  that  tragedy  is  intended  to  feed  and 
strengthen  the  feelings  of  humanity,  to  inculcate  a  love  of  vir- 
tue, a  hatred  of  vice,  and  so  on  f  but,  my  good  sir,  what  poem 
should  not  do  the  same  ?  Then  if  this  is  the  intention  of  every 
poem,  it  cannot  form  the  distinctive  feature  of  tragedy;  and 
this  cannot  therefore  be  what  we  were  seeking. 

To  what  end  the  hard  work  of  dramatic  form  ?  Why  build 
a  theatre,  disguise  men  and  women,  burden  their  memories, 
and  assemble  the  whole  town  in  one  place,  if  I  intend  my  work 
and  its  representation  to  produce  nothing  more  than  some  of 
those  emotions  which  could  be  as  well  produced  by  any  good 
story  that  everyone  could  read  at  home  for  himself? 

The  dramatic  form  is  the  only  one  in  which  pity  and  fear 
may  be  aroused ;  at  all  events  in  no  other  form  can  these  pas- 
sions be  awakened  to  such  a  degree.  And  yet  people  prefer  to 
awaken  in  it  all  other  emotions  rather  than  these,  and  to  use 
it  for  every  other  purpose  than  the  one  for  which  it  is  pre- 
eminently adapted. 

The  public  is  satisfied ;  this  is  well  and  yet  not  well.  One 
has  no  special  longing  for  the  food  with  which  one  is  bound 
to  put  up. 

It  is  well  known  how  intent  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans  were 
upon  their  plays,  especially  the  former  upon  their  tragedies. 
What  coldness  and  indifference  our  public,  on  the  other  hand, 
show  towards  the  theatre !  To  what  must  we  attribute  this 
difference,  if  it  be  not  to  the  fact  that  the  Greeks  felt  themselves 
animated  by  their  stage  with  such  intense  and  extraordinary 
emotions  that  they  could  hardly  await  the  moment  to  experi- 
ence them  again  and  again ;  whereas  we,  on  the  other  hand, 
derive  such  feeble  impressions  from  our  stage  that  we  rarely 

"  rnrtiiis,   in   his  "  Dissertation  upon  the    Aims    of    Tragedy,"    appended    to 
Aristotle's  *'  Poetics." 


ARISTOTLE    AND   TRAGEDY  105 

consider  it  worth  the  time  and  the  money  to  procure  them? 
jMost  of  us  go  to  the  theatre  almost  invariably  for  the  sake  of 
satisfying  our  curiosity  or  of  killing  time,  for  the  sake  of  fash- 
ion or  of  company,  from  a  desire  to  see  and  be  seen ;  very  few 
of  us,  and  those  but  seldom,  go  from  any  other  motive. 

When  I  say  we,  our  public,  our  stage,  I  do  not  mean  the 
Germans  only.  We  Germans  candidly  admit  that  we  as  yet 
possess  no  theatre.  What  many  of  our  critics,  who  join  us  in 
this  confefjsion  and  who  are  great  admirers  of  the  French  the- 
atre, think  when  they  admit  it,  I  am  unable  to  say.  But  I  know 
what  my  own  views  on  the  matter  are.  I  am  of  opinion  that 
not  only  we  Germans,  but  also  those  who  boast  of  having  pos- 
sessed a  theatre  for  a  century  already,  nay  more,  who  brag  of 
having  the  best  theatre  in  all  Europe — that  even  the  French 
themselves  have  as  yet  no  theatre. 

At  all  events,  they  have  no  tragic  one.  The  impressions  pro- 
duced by  French  tragedy  are  absolutely  cold  and  feeble.  Hear 
what  a  Frenchman  himself  has  to  say  of  them. 

"  The  surpassing  beauties  of  our  theatre,"  says  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, "  were  combined  with  a  hidden  fault  which  had  escaped 
notice  because  the  public  could  not  of  its  own  accord  have  any 
higher  ideas  than  those  imparted  to  it  by  the  models  of  the 
great  masters.  Saint-Evremond  has  alone  discovered  this  fault ; 
he  says  that  our  plays  do  not  make  a  sufficient  impression,  that 
that  which  should  excite  pity  only  awakens  tenderness,  that 
gentle  emotion  takes  the  place  of  agitation,  and  surprise  that  of 
terror ;  that  our  feelings,  in  short,  do  not  attain  a  sufficient  de- 
gree of  intensity.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  Saint-Evremond 
has  laid  his  finger  upon  the  secret  sore  of  the  French  theatre. 
It  may  be  urged  that  Saint-Evremond  was  the  author  of  a 
wretched  comedy, '  Sir  Politic  Wouldbe,'  and  of  another  equally 
wretched  one  called  '  The  Operas  ' ;  that  his  small  society  verses 
are  the  weakest  and  most  trivial  of  their  kind  ;  and  that  he  was 
nothing  but  a  poetaster.  One  may  not  have  a  spark  of  genius, 
and  yet  possess  much  wit  and  taste.  Now  he  had  unquestion- 
ably a  very  refined  taste ;  this  is  borne  out  by  the  fact  that  he 
divined  the  true  reason  why  most  of  our  plays  are  so  tame  and 
cold.  We  have  always  lacked  a  certain  degree  of  warmth; 
everything  else  we  possessed." 

In  ^ther  words ;    we  possessed  everything  excepting  only; 


io6  LESSING 

that  which  we  most  needed ;  our  tragedies  were  excellent,  but 

for  the  fact  that  they  were  not  tragedies  at  all.     And  why  were 
they  not  tragedies? 

"  This  coldness,"  Voltaire  continues,  "  this  monotonous 
tameness,  arose  in  part  from  the  petty  spirit  of  gallantry  which 
was  at  that  time  so  prevalent  amongst  our  courtiers,  and  which 
transformed  a  tragedy  into  a  series  of  amorous  dialogues  after 
the  taste  of  Cyrus  and  Clelie.  The  only  plays  that  formed  an 
exception  to  this  rule  consisted  of  lengthy  political  tirades,  such 
as  spoilt  Sertorius,  made  Otho  cold,  Surena  and  Attila  wretched. 
There  was  yet  another  cause  that  prevented  the  display  of  high 
pathos  upon  our  stage  and  hindered  the  action  from  becoming 
truly  tragic,  and  that  was  the  narrow,  poorly-constructed  the- 
atre with  its  paltry  decorations.  What  room  was  there  for  ac- 
tion upon  a  stage  composed  of  a  few  dozen  boards,  which  was 
moreover  filled  with  spectators?  How  could  the  eyes  of  the 
latter  be  captivated,  dazzled  and  illuded,  by  any  display  of  pomp 
and  accessories  ?  How  could  great  tragic  actions  be  performed 
there?  How  could  the  poet's  imagination  be  allowed  free  play? 
The  pieces  had  to  consist  of  lengthy  descriptions,  so  that  they 
resembled  dialogues  rather  than  plays.  Every  actor  was  bent 
upon  shining  in  a  long  monologue,  and  such  plays  as  did  not 
contain  any  were  rejected.  In  this  form  all  theatrical  action 
disappeared,  as  did  also  all  intense  display  of  the  passions,  all 
powerful  pictures  of  human  misery,  all  harrowing  traits  which 
could  pierce  to  the  very  soul ;  the  spectator's  heart,  instead  of 
being  rent  asunder,  was  scarcely  touched." 

The  first  reason  is  a  perfectly  correct  one.  Gallantry  and 
politics  always  leave  a  cold  impression ;  and  no  poet  has  ever 
yet  succeeded  in  arousing  pity  and  fear  by  means  of  them.  The 
former  make  us  imagine  that  we  hear  only  the  fat  or  the  school- 
master ;  the  latter  would  have  us  hear  nothing  but  the  human 
being. 

But  how  about  the  second  reason  ?  Can  it  be  possible  that  the 
absence  of  a  spacious  theatre  and  of  good  scenery  should  have 
exercised  such  an  influence  upon  the  genius  of  the  poet?  Is 
it  true  that  every  tragic  plot  requires  pomp  and  accessories? 
Or  should  not  the  pf)et  rather  construct  his  play  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  it  could  produce  its  full  effect  even  without  these  ad- 
ditions? 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  107 

He  certainly  should  do  so,  according  to  Aristotle.  "  Fear 
and  pity,"  says  the  philosopher,  "  may  be  awakened  by  appeal- 
ing to  the  organs  of  sight ;  but  they  can  also  proceed  from  tlie 
connection  of  the  events  themselves;  the  latter  is  the  more 
excellent  method  and  that  adopted  by  the  best  poets.  For  the 
story  must  be  so  constructed  that  it  awakens  pity  and  fear  in  him 
who  merely  listens  to  the  relation  of  its  events;  such  is  the 
story  of  CEdipus,  which  only  requires  to  be  heard  to  arouse  the 
above-mentioned  passions.  To  produce  this  effect  by  means  of 
the  organs  of  sight,  less  art  is  required;  and  this  should  be 
left  to  the  person  who  undertakes  the  representation  of  the 
play." 

Shakespeare's  plays  are  said  to  afford  a  curious  proof  of  the 
dispensableness  of  scenic  decorations.  What  plays,  it  is  asked, 
stand  more  in  need  of  the  whole  art  of  the  decorator  than  these, 
with  their  constant  interruptions  and  changes  of  scene?  Yet 
there  was  a  time  when  the  stages  on  which  they  were  per- 
formed consisted  of  nothing  but  a  curtain  of  some  coarse  ma- 
terial, which,  when  drawn  up,  disclosed  the  walls,  which  were 
quite  bare  or  covered,  at  most,  with  matting  or  tapestry.  Here 
there  was  nothing  save  the  imagination  to  assist  the  actors  in 
interpreting  the  piece  and  the  spectators  in  comprehending  it ; 
yet,  in  spite  of  this,  it  is  maintained  that  Shakespeare's  plays 
were  in  those  days  more  intelligible  without  scenery  than  they 
afterwards  were  with  it.'^ 

If,  then,  the  poet  need  not  trouble  himself  about  scenery; 
and  if  the  same,  even  in  cases  where  it  would  seem  necessary, 
can  be  omitted  without  essentially  detracting  from  his  play: 
why  should  the  fact  of  the  French  poets  not  having  given  us 
more  touching  plays  be  ascribed  to  the  narrow  and  unfavorable 
construction  of  the  theatre?  The  fault  did  not  lie  with  the 
theatre ;  it  lay  with  themselves. 

And  this  is  confirmed  by  experience.    For  to-day  the  French 

">  Gibber's    "  Lives    of    the    Poets    of  changes    in    which    the    poets    of    those 

Great   Britain  and    Ireland,"  vol.   ii.  pp.  times  freely   indulged  themselves,   there 

78,  79:—"  Some  have  insinuated  that  fine  was  nothing  to  help  the  spectator's  un- 

scenes   proved    the   ruin   of   acting.      In  derstanding,  or  to  assist  the  actor's  per- 

the  reign  of  Charles  I  there  was  nothing  formance,    hut    bare    imagination.      The 

more  than  a  curtain  of  very  coarse  stuff,  spirit   and   judgment   of   the   actors    sup- 

upon  the  drawing  up  of  which  the  stage  plied  all  deficiencies  and  made,  as  some 

appeared,  either  with  bare  walls  on  the  would  insinuate,  plays  more  intelligible 

sides,  coarsely  matted,  or  covered  with  without     scenes    than    they    afterwards 

tapestry;    so  that  for  the  place  original-  were  with  them." 
ly   represented,    and   all   the   successive 


io8  LESSING 

have  a  finer  and  more  spacious  stage;  the  spectators  are  no 
longer  allowed  upon  it ;  the  wings  are  kept  clear ;  the  decora- 
tor has  free  hands  and  can  paint  and  construct  whatever  the 
poet  requires  of  him.  Yet  where  are  those  more  passionate 
plays  that  one  might  have  expected  to  find?  Does  M.  de  Vol- 
taire flatter  himself  that  his  "  Semiramis  "  is  one  of  them  ? 
There  we  have  pomp  and  accessories  in  plenty,  and  a  ghost  into 
the  bargain ;  and  notwithstanding  all  this,  I  know  of  no  colder 
play  than  his  "  Semiramis." 

Now  shall  I  be  taken  to  mean  by  all  this  that  no  Frenchman 
is  capable  of  writing  a  really  passionate  tragedy;  that  the 
volatile  spirit  of  that  nation  is  unequal  to  the  task  ?  I  should  be 
ashamed  of  entertaining  such  an  opinion.  Germany  has  not  so 
far  made  herself  ridiculous  by  any  Bouhours;  and  I,  for  my 
part,  have  not  the  least  inclination  for  the  part.  I  am  convinced 
that  no  nation  in  the  world  has  been  specially  endowed  with 
any  mental  gift  superior  to  that  of  other  nations.  We  often 
hear  of  the  shrewd  Englishman,  the  witty  Frenchman.  But 
who  made  this  distinction  ?  Certainly  not  Nature,  for  she  dis- 
tributes all  things  equally  amongst  all.  There  are  as  many 
witty  Englishmen  as  witty  Frenchmen,  and  as  many  shrewd 
Frenchmen  as  shrewd  Englishmen,  whilst  the  bulk  of  the  peo- 
ple is  neither  one  nor  the  other. 

What,  then,  do  I  mean  to  convey?  I  merely  want  to  say 
that  the  French  have  not  yet  got  that  which  they  might  very 
well  have — viz.,  true  tragedy.  And  why  have  they  not  got  it 
yet  ?  In  order  to  hit  upon  the  correct  reason,  it  would  have  been 
necessary  for  Voltaire  to  know  himself  a  great  deal  better. 

I  mean  that  they  have  not  got  it  because  they  believe  that 
they  have  had  it  for  a  long  time.  And  they  are  certainly 
strengthened  in  this  belief  by  a  quality  which  they  possess  be- 
yond all  other  nations,  but  which  is  not  a  gift  of  nature — 
namely,  their  vanity. 

As  with  single  individuals,  so  it  is  with  nations.  Gottsched 
(it  will  readily  be  guessed  why  I  mention  him  here)  was  in  his 
young  days  held  to  be  a  poet,  because  at  that  time  people  did 
not  know  the  difference  between  a  mere  versifier  and  a  poet. 
Philosophy  and  criticism  in  due  course  made  the  distinction 
clear;  and  if  Gottsched  had  but  tried  to  keep  abreast  with  the 
times,  if  he  had  but  developed  and  rectified  his  ideas  and  his 


ARISTOTLE    AND   TRAGEDY  109 

taste  according  to  the  ideas  and  the  taste  of  the  age,  the  versifier 
might  perhaps  have  grown  into  a  poet.  But  having  so  often 
heard  himself  styled  the  greatest  poet,  and  being  persuaded  by 
his  vanity  that  such  was  really  the  case,  he  neglected  to  do  this. 
He  could  not  possibly  acquire  what  he  already  believed  himself 
to  possess ;  and  the  older  he  grew,  the  more  obstinately  and  un- 
blushingly  he  asserted  his  imagined  superiority. 

The  same  thing,  it  appears  to  me,  has  happened  to  the  French. 
No  sooner  had  Corneille  raised  their  theatre  a  little  out  of  the 
barbarous  conditions  in  which  he  found  it  than  they  already 
deemed  it  close  to  perfection.  Racine  appeared  to  them  to  add 
the  finishing  touch  ;  and  from  that  time  forth  they  never  asked 
themselves  for  one  moment  (nor,  in  fact,  had  they  ever  done 
so)  whether  it  was  possible  for  any  tragic  poet  to  be  more 
pathetic,  more  passionate,  than  Corneille  and  Racine.  They 
took  it  for  granted  that  such  a  thing  was  impossible,  and  all 
their  succeeding  poets  had  to  confine  their  zeal  to  imitating  the 
one  or  the  other  as  closely  as  possible.  For  a  hundred  years 
they  have  thus  deceived  themselves  and  partly  also  their  neigh- 
bors. And  now  let  some  one  tell  them  so,  and  see  what  they 
will  say ! 

Of  the  two,  Corneille  has  done  the  greater  harm  and  exer- 
cised the  more  baneful  influence  upon  their  tragic  poets.  For 
Racine  deceived  them  by  his  example  only,  but  Corneille  by  his 
example  and  doctrines  together. 

The  latter  especially,  which  were  accepted  as  oracles  by  the 
whole  nation  (with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  pedants,  a 
Hedelin,  a  Dacier,  who,  however,  often  did  not  themselves  know 
what  they  wanted)  and  followed  by  all  subsequent  poets,  have 
failed  to  produce  anything  but  the  most  shallow,  vapid,  and 
untragical  stuff.  This  I  would  undertake  to  prove  piece  by 
piece. 

The  rules  of  Aristotle  are  well  calculated  to  produce  the 
highest  tragic  effect.  What  does  Corneille  do  with  them?  He 
brings  them  forward  falsely  and  inaccurately ;  and  finding  them 
still  too  severe,  he  endeavors  to  discover  in  one  or  the  other 
quelque  moderation,  quelque  favorable  interpretation,  and 
weakens  and  mutilates,  misinterprets  and  frustrates  every  rule. 
And  why?  Pour  n'ctre  pas  obliges  de  condanincr  beaucoup  de 
poemes  que  nous  avons  vu  reussir  sur  nos  theatres;  "  so  as  not 


no  LESSING 

to  be  obliged  to  condemn  many  plays  which  have  met  with  suc- 
cess upon  our  stage."    A  fine  reason ! 

I  will  rapidly  touch  upon  the  chief  points.  Some  of  them  I 
have  already  noticed ;  but  for  the  sake  of  consistency  I  must 
reiterate  them. 

1 .  Aristotle  says :  tragedy  should  excite  pity  and  fear,  Cor- 
neille  says :  yes,  but  not  necessarily  both  at  the  same  time ;  we 
are  quite  satisfied  with  either  one  or  the  other,  now  with  pity 
without  fear,  now  with  fear  without  pity.  For  else,  where 
should  I,  the  great  Corneille,  be  with  my  Rodogune  and  my 
Chimene?  These  good  children  arouse  pity,  very  great  pity, 
but  hardly  fear.  Then  again,  where  should  I  be,  with  my  Cleo- 
patra, my  Prusias,  my  Phocas?  Who  can  feel  any  pity  for 
these  wretches?  And  yet  they  awaken  fear.  So  thought  Cor- 
neille, and  the  French  thought  it  after  him. 

2.  Aristotle  says :  tragedy  should  excite  pity  and  fear ;  that 
is  to  say,  both  by  means  of  one  and  the  same  person.  Corneille 
says :  if  this  can  be  so  arranged,  very  good.  But  it  is  not  ab- 
solutely necessary,  and  one  would  be  perfectly  justified  in  em- 
ploying several  persons  to  produce  these  two  feelings,  as  I  have 
done  in  my  "  Rodogune."  Thus  did  Corneille,  and  the  French 
follow  his  example. 

3.  Aristotle  says:  through  the  pity  and  the  fear  which  are 
awakened  by  tragedy,  our  pity  and  our  fear,  and  all  our  allied 
feelings,  ought  to  be  purified.  Corneille  knows  nothing  at  all 
of  this,  and  imagines  that  Aristotle  meant  to  say  that  tragedy 
awakens  our  pity  in  order  to  awaken  our  fear,  and  that  the 
latter  will  serve  to  purify  in  us  those  passions  through  which 
the  object  of  our  pity  has  been  plunged  into  misfortune.  I  will 
not  discuss  the  value  of  this  aim ;  suffice  it  to  say  that  it  does 
not  belong  to  Aristotle,  and  that,  as  Corneille  assigned  to  his 
tragedies  an  entirely  different  aim,  they  could  not  but  become 
entirely  different  works  from  those  whence  Aristotle  had  ab- 
stracted his  theory ;  they  had  needs  to  become  tragedies  which 
were  no  true  tragedies.  And  this  applies  not  only  to  his  plays, 
but  to  all  the  French  tragedies,  for  their  authors  did  not  set 
themselves  to  follow  the  lines  laid  down  by  Aristotle,  but  those 
laid  down  by  Corneille,  I  have  already  said  that  Dacier  held 
that  both  aims  could  be  combined  ;  but  by  this  very  combination 
the  former  is  weakened,  and  the  tragedy  falls  short  of  its  full 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  m 

effect.  Dacier's  conception  of  the  former  was,  moreover,  as  I 
have  shown,  a  very  imperfect  one,  and  it  was  therefore  no 
wonder  that  he  imagined  that  the  French  tragedies  of  his  time 
fulfilled  the  former  aim  rather  than  the  latter.  "  Our  tragedy," 
he  says,  "  is  fairly  successful  in  the  former  aim  of  exciting  and 
purifying  pity  and  fear.  But  it  rarely  succeeds  in  the  latter  one, 
though  that  is  the  more  important,  and  it  purifies  the  other  pas- 
sions but  little,  or,  since  it  ordinarily  contains  nothing  but  love- 
intrigues,  if  it  purified  any  one  of  them,  it  would  be  the  passion 
of  love  alone,  whence  it  may  be  inferred  that  it  is  of  very  small 
value."  *  Now  the  truth  is  exactly  the  contrary.  There  are 
more  French  tragedies  that  do  justice  to  the  second  aim  than  to 
the  first.  I  know  of  several  French  plays  which  clearly  expose 
the  hurtful  consequences  resulting  from  one  passion  or  another, 
and  from  which  many  good  lessons  may  be  gathered  in  regard 
to  such  a  passion ;  but  I  know  of  none  that  excite  my  pity  to 
the  extent  to  which  tragedy  ought  to  excite  it,  and  to  which 
several  Greek  and  English  plays  have  conclusively  shown  me 
that  tragedy  can  excite  it.  Some  of  the  French  tragedies  are 
very  fine  and  instructive  works,  and,  in  my  opinion,  very  praise- 
worthy ;  only  they  are  not  tragedies.  Their  authors  cannot 
have  been  other  than  very  clever  men ;  some  of  them  deserve  no 
mean  rank  among  the  poets :  only  they  are  not  tragic  poets ; 
their  Corneille  and  Racine,  their  Crebillon  and  Voltaire,  have 
little  or  nothing  of  that  which  makes  Sophocles  a  Sophocles, 
Euripides  a  Euripides,  and  Shakespeare  a  Shakespeare.  These 
latter  are  seldom  at  variance  with  the  essential  demands  of  Ar- 
istotle ;  the  former,  on  the  contrary,  are  often  so.  For  to  pro- 
ceed— 

4.  Aristotle  says:  in  tragedy  a  good  man  must  not  be 
plunged  into  misfortune  without  any  fault  on  his  part ;  for  this 
would  be  too  terrible.  "  Precisely."  says  Corneille,  "  such  an 
event  awakens  more  displeasure  and  hatred  for  him  who  causes 
the  misfortune,  than  pity  for  him  who  is  afflicted  by  it.  The  former 
feeling,  which  should  not  be  the  proper  effect  of  tragedy,  would 
consequently,  unless  treated  with  very  great  skill,  stifle  the 
latter  feeling,  which  is  the  one  that  tragedy  ought  to  produce. 
The  spectator  would  go  away  dissatisfied,  because  too  much 
wrath  would  be  mingled  with  his  pity,  which  latter  would  have 

"  "  Poet.  d'Arist.,"  chap,  vi.,  Rem.  8. 


112  LESSING 

satisfied  him,  if  he  could  but  have  remained  free  from  any 
other  feehngs.  But,"  Corneille  hastens  to  add;  for  he  always 
has  a  "  but  "  to  follow — "  but  if  this  cause  is  removed ;  if  the 
poet  constructs  his  play  in  such  a  way  that  the  virtuous  man 
who  suffers  can  excite  more  pity  for  himself  than  hatred  for 
him  who  causes  his  suffering;  what  then?  Why,  then,"  he 
goes  on  to  say,  "  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  no  one  should  hesitate 
to  represent  even  the  most  virtuous  of  men  suffering  upon  the 
stage."  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  anyone  can  deal  with 
the  philosopher  in  such  a  slipshod  manner,  and  profess  to  un- 
derstand him,  whilst  imputing  opinions  to  him  which  he  has 
never  held.  "  A  totally  unmerited  misfortune,  which  overtakes 
a  good  man,"  says  Aristotle,  "  is  not  suitable  for  tragedy,  be- 
cause it  is  terrible."  This  "  because,"  which  leads  to  the  cause, 
is  changed  by  Corneille  into  "  in  so  far  as,"  merely  a  certain 
condition  under  which  it  ceases  to  be  tragic.  Aristotle  says: 
it  is  altogether  terrible,  and  for  that  very  reason  untragical. 
But  Corneille  says :  it  is  untragical  in  so  far  as  it  is  terrible. 
This  terribleness  is  ascribed  by  Aristotle  to  the  nature  of  the 
misfortune  itself ;  but  Corneille  sets  it  down  to  the  displeasure 
which  it  awakens  towards  him  who  is  the  cause  of  it.  He  does 
not,  or  will  not,  see  that  this  terribleness  is  something  quite 
different  from  this  displeasure,  and  that  even  if  the  latter  were 
entirely  absent,  the  former  might  nevertheless  be  experienced 
to  its  fullest  extent :  it  is  enough  for  him  that  in  the  first  place 
several  of  his  plays  seem  to  be  justified  by  this  quid  pro  quo; 
plays,  which  he  deems  so  little  at  variance  with  the  rules  of  Ar- 
istotle, that  he  actually  has  the  boldness  to  imagine  that,  if 
Aristotle  had  but  been  acquainted  with  such  plays,  he  would 
have  modified  his  doctrines  accordingly  and  gathered  from 
them  various  methods  by  which  the  misfortune  of  a  virtuous 
man  may  yet  be  rendered  a  fitting  subject  for  tragedy.  "  En 
void,"  he  says,  "  deux  on  trois  manihes,  que  pent-ctre  Aristote 
n'a  su  prhwir,  parccqn'on  n'en  voyait  pas  d'exeinples  sur  les 
theatres  de  son  temps."  And  whose  are  these  examples: 
Whose  else  but  his  own?  And  what  are  those  two  or  three 
methods?  We  will  see  at  once.  "  The  first,"  he  says,  "  consists 
in  representing  a  very  virtiiotis  person  as  being  persecuted  b} 
a  very  vieious  one,  and  yet  escaping  from  his  peril,  in  such  a 
way  that  the  vicious  person  is  himself  ensnared  by  it.    This  is 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  113 

the  case  in  *  Rodogune  '  and  in  '  Heraclius  ' ;  and  it  would 
have  been  quite  intolerable  had  Antiochus  and  Rodogune  per- 
ished in  the  first-mentioned  play,  and  Heraclius,  Pulcheria  and 
Martian  in  the  second,  and  Cleopatra  and  Phocas  been  left  to 
triumph.  The  sufferings  of  the  former  persons  awaken  a  feel- 
ing of  pity  which  our  hatred  for  their  persecutors  is  incapable 
of  stifling,  for  we  keep  on  hoping  that  some  happy  circum- 
stance may  intervene  to  save  them  from  ruin."  It  is  absurd  of 
Corneille  to  try  and  make  out  that  Aristotle  was  unacquainted 
with  this  method.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  so  well  acquainted 
with  it  that,  if  he  did  not  condemn  it  altogether,  he  at  any  rate 
explicitly  declared  it  to  be  more  suitable  for  comedy  than  for 
tragedy.  How  could  Corneille  have  forgotten  this?  But  so  it 
is  with  all  who  start  by  assuming  their  cause  to  be  the  cause 
of  truth.  Moreover,  strictly  speaking,  this  method  does  not 
apply  to  the  case  in  point  at  all.  For  it  would  not  have  the  effect 
of  rendering  the  virtuous  man  unfortunate,  but  would  merely 
lead  him  along  the  road  to  misfortune,  and  this  of  itself  might 
perhaps  arouse  sympathetic  anxiety  on  his  behalf,  but  it  would 
not  be  terrible. 

Now  for  the  second  method.  "  It  may  also  happen,"  says 
Corneille,  "  that  a  very  virtuous  man  is  persecuted  and  ruined 
at  the  instigation  of  another  who  is  not  so  vicious  as  to  wholly 
deserve  our  displeasure,  and  whose  persecution  of  the  virtuous 
man  reveals  more  weakness  than  wickedness.  When  Felix 
causes  the  downfall  of  his  son-in-law  Polyeucte,  he  is  prompted 
not  so  much  by  indignant  rage  against  the  Christians,  which 
would  render  him  detestable  in  our  eyes,  as  by  servile  fear,  which 
hinders  him  from  saving  him  in  the  presence  of  Severus,  by 
whose  hatred  and  vengeance  he  is  awed.  Some  displeasure 
will  doubtless  be  awakened  against  Felix;  his  conduct  will  be 
blamed ;  yet  this  displeasure  will  not  outweigh  the  pity  which 
we  entertain  for  Polyeucte,  nor  will  it  prevent  his  wonderful 
conversion  at  the  end  of  the  play  from  reinstating  him  in  the 
good  graces  of  the  spectators."  I  suppose  there  have  been 
bunglers  in  tragedy  at  all  times  and  even  in  Athens.  Why  then 
should  not  Aristotle  have  been  acquainted  with  a  play  of  similar 
construction,  from  which  he  could  draw  the  same  conclusions 
as  Corneille?     What  nonsense!     In  plays  of  this  kind,  timid, 

vacillating  and  undecided  characters,  like  Felix,  are  but  an  ad- 

p— Vol.  (iO 


114  LESSING 

ditional  fault,  for  they  lend  them  a  certain  coldness  and  repul- 
siveness  on  the  one  hand,  without  in  the  least  detracting  from 
their  terribleness  on  the  other.  For,  as  already  mentioned,  the 
terrible  does  not  consist  in  the  displeasure  or  aversion  which 
they  excite,  but  in  the  misfortune  itself  which  afflicts  the  inno- 
cent sufferers.  The  misfortune  is  in  any  case  equally  unde- 
served, be  the  persecutors  wicked  or  weak,  be  their  conduct 
premeditated  or  unpremeditated.  The  thought  that  there  may 
be  persons  who,  from  no  fault  of  their  own,  meet  with  mis- 
fortunes, is  in  itself  a  terrible  one.  And  whereas  the  pagans 
tried  to  banish  this  terrible  thought  as  much  as  possible,  we 
endeavor  to  retain  it?  We  try  to  derive  pleasure  from  plays 
that  confirm  it  ?  We,  whom  religion  and  common-sense  should 
have  convinced  that  it  is  as  erroneous  as  it  is  blasphemous  ? 

The  same  would  no  doubt  apply  to  the  third  method,  had  not 
Corneille  himself  forgotten  to  state  which  this  is. 

5.  Aristotle's  remarks  upon  the  unfitness  of  an  entirely  vici- 
ous person  to  form  a  tragic  hero,  inasmuch  as  his  misfortunes 
would  awaken  neither  pity  nor  fear,  are  likewise  modified  by 
Corneille.  Pity,  he  tells  us,  a  person  of  that  sort  could  not 
excite,  but  he  might  very  well  arouse  fear.  For  although  none 
of  the  spectators  deemed  themselves  capable  of  acquiring  his 
vices,  and  consequently  liable  to  suffer  his  misfortune  in  its  en- 
tirety ;  yet  each  one  of  them  might  be  the  victim  of  some  fault 
more  or  less  akin  to  one  or  other  of  these  vices,  and  would 
in  that  case  derive  a  salutary  corrective  from  a  fear  of  its  con- 
sequences, which,  though  proportionately  less  serious,  would 
still  be  unfortunate.  But  this  argument  is  based  upon  the  false 
conception  which  Corneille  formed  of  fear  and  of  the  purifica- 
tion of  those  passions  which  are  awakened  by  tragedy.  It  con- 
tradicts itself;  for,  as  I  have  already  pointed  out,  the  excita- 
tion of  pity  is  inseparable  from  the  excitation  of  fear,  and  if  it 
were  possible  for  a  villain  to  excite  our  fear,  he  must  of  neces- 
sity excite  our  pity  also.  But  since,  as  Corneille  himself  admits, 
he  cannot  do  the  latter,  he  can  neither  do  the  former ;  and  he 
therefore  does  not  serve  in  the  least  to  fulfil  the  aim  of  tragedy. 
Aristotle  even  considers  him  less  fitted  to  do  so  than  the  en- 
tirely virtuous  man  ;  for  he  clearly  maintains  that,  failing  a  hero 
who  combines  good  and  bad  qualities  equally,  it  is  better  to 
choose  a  good  one  than  a  bad  one.    The  reason  is  very  simple ; 


ARISTOTLE    AND   TRAGEDY  IT5 

a  man  may  be  very  good,  and  yet  possess  more  faults  than  one 
or  commit  more  errors  than  one,  whereby  he  is  pkmged  into  an 
immeasurable  misfortune  which  fills  us  with  pity  and  sorrow, 
without  being  in  the  least  terrible,  because  it  is  the  natural 
consequence  of  his  errors.  What  Dubos  **  says  about  the  em- 
ployment of  vicious  persons  in  tragedy  is  not  what  Corneille 
means.  Dubos  would  only  allow  them  as  subsidiary  charac- 
ters, as  merely  instrumental  in  rendering  the  chief  characters 
less  culpable  by  serving  as  foils  to  them.  Corneille,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  make  them  the  main  objects  of  interest,  as  he  has 
shown  us  in  "  Rodogune  " ;  and  it  is  the  latter  which  is  at  vari- 
ance with  the  aim  of  tragedy,  not  the  former.  Dubos  adds  the 
very  true  remark  that  the  misfortunes  of  these  subsidiary  vil- 
lains make  no  impression  upon  us.  "  In  '  Britannicus,'  "  he 
says,  "  we  scarcely  notice  the  death  of  Narcissus."  And  for 
this  very  reason  the  poet  should  avoid  these  characters  as  far  as 
possible.  For  if  their  misfortunes  do  not  directly  further  the 
aim  of  tragedy ;  if  they  are  merely  employed  by  the  poet  as 
instruments  to  enable  him  the  better  to  achieve  that  aim  in  other 
characters:  it  cannot  be  denied  that  a  play  would  be  all  the 
better,  if  it  produced  the  same  effect  without  their  aid.  The 
simpler  a  machine,  the  fewer  its  springs  and  wheels  and 
weights,  the  more  perfect  it  will  be. 

6.  And  lastly,  as  regards  the  misconception  of  the  first  and 
most  essential  quality  demanded  by  Aristotle  in  the  moral  char- 
acter of  tragic  personages.  Their  morals  must  be  good. 
"  Good  ?  "  says  Corneille.  "  Why,  if  good  here  means  the  same 
as  virtuous,  what  becomes  of  the  majority  of  ancient  and 
modern  tragedies  which  abound  in  characters,  which  if  not  ab- 
solutely bad  and  vicious,  are  yet  endowed  with  a  weakness  that 
is  hardly  compatible  with  virtue  ?  "  He  is  especially  alarmed 
for  the  safety  of  Cleopatra  in  his  "  Rodogune."  So  he  refuses 
to  regard  the  goodness  demanded  by  Aristotle  as  moral  good- 
ness ;  it  must  be  some  other  kind  of  goodness,  compatible  wnth 
moral  badness  as  well  as  with  moral  goodness.  But  what  Aris- 
totle means  is  purely  moral  goodness ;  only  virtuous  persons 
and  persons  who,  under  certain  circumstances,  display  moral 
virtue,  are  not  one  and  the  same  thing  to  him.  Corneille.  in 
short,  connects  the  word  "  moral  "  with  an  entirely  false  idea, 

*  "  Reflexions  Critiques  sur  la  Poesie  et  la  Peinture,"  t.  i.,  sec.  xv. 


ii6  LESSING 

and  he  has  altogether  failed  to  grasp  the  proseresis,  through 
which  alone,  according  to  our  philosopher,  free  actions  become 
moral  or  immoral.  I  cannot  here  furnish  an  exhaustive  proof 
of  any  assertion ;  in  order  to  clearly  understand  it,  one  must  be 
familiar  with  the  connection  and  syllogistic  sequence  of  all  the 
ideas  propounded  by  the  Greek  critic.  I  will  therefore  defer 
it  until  another  occasion ;  all  that  I  have  to  show  at  present  is 
that  Corneille,  having  missed  the  proper  path,  has  chosen  a 
very  disastrous  one  instead.  The  latter  leads  him  to  the  fol- 
lowing conclusion:  that  by  moral  goodness  Aristotle  under- 
stood the  brilliant  and  lofty  character  of  some  inclination, 
whether  praiseworthy  or  reprehensible,  which  might  either  be 
the  peculiar  attribute  of  the  person  introduced,  or  else  be  skil- 
fully imparted  to  that  person ;  le  caractere  brillant  et  Sieve  d'lme 
hahihide  vertiietise  on  criminelle,  selon  qu'elle  est  propre  et  con- 
venahle  a  la  personne  qu'on  introduit.  "  Cleopatra  in  *  Rodo- 
gune,'  "  he  says,  "  is  a  thoroughly  bad  person ;  there  is  no 
murder  that  she  fears  to  commit,  if  it  but  serve  to  maintain  her 
upon  the  throne,  which  is  dearer  to  her  than  anything  else  in 
the  world ;  so  keen  is  her  love  of  dominion.  But  all  her  crimes 
are  connected  with  a  certain  greatness  of  soul,  which  is  of  itself 
so  impressive  that,  whilst  we  condemn  her  actions,  we  cannot 
but  admire  the  source  from  which  they  originate.  I  would  say 
the  same  thing  of  the  Liar.  Lying  is  unquestionably  a  vicious 
habit ;  but  Dorante  gives  vent  to  his  lies  with  such  presence  of 
mind,  with  such  vivacity,  that  this  defect  almost  appeals  in  his 
favor,  and  the  spectators  are  bound  to  admit  that  the  ability  to 
tell  such  lies  is  a  vice  whereof  no  fool  could  be  capable."  Cor- 
neille could,  indeed,  hardly  have  arrived  at  a  more  wretched 
conclusion !  Carry  it  into  execution  and  you  will  find  that  all 
the  truth,  the  illusion  and  the  moral  benefit  of  tragedy  vanish 
entirely.  For  virtue,  which  is  ever  modest  and  simple,  is,  by 
assuming  that  brilliant  character,  rendered  vain  and  romantic, 
whilst  vice  is  thereby  shrouded  with  a  certain  glamour  which 
always  dazzles  us,  from  whichever  point  of  view  we  regard  it. 
It  is  absurd  to  try  to  employ  the  mere  evil  consequences  of  a 
vice  as  a  deterrent,  if  its  inner  hidcousness  is  kept  out  of  sight. 
The  consequences  arc  accidental,  and  experience  shows  us  that 
they  are  as  often  favorable  as  unfavorable.  This  refers  to  the 
purification  of  the  passions,  as  understood  by  Corneille.    As  I 


ARISTOTLE   AND   TRAGEDY  117 

imagine  it,  as  Aristotle  explained  it,  it  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  that  deceptive  brilliance.  The  false  foil  which  is  by 
this  means  given  to  vice  causes  us  to  recognize  perfections 
where  none  exist,  and  to  feel  pity  where  we  should  feel  none. 
Dacier,  it  is  true,  has  already  contradicted  this  explanation,  but 
for  less  cogent  reasons ;  and  the  one  which  he,  together  with 
Pere  Le  Bossu,  adopts  in  its  place,  is  not  far  from  being  quite 
as  disadvantageous  to  the  poetical  perfection  of  a  play.  For, 
according  to  him,  the  statement,  that  the  morals  should  be  good, 
means  no  more  than  that  they  should  be  clearly  defined,  qu'clles 
soient  bien  marquees.  This  is  a  rule  which,  if  correctly  taken, 
is,  in  its  proper  place,  worthy  of  careful  attention  on  the  part 
of  the  dramatist.  From  the  French  models  it  would  unfortu- 
nately appear  that  clearly  defined  has  been  taken  to  mean  the 
same  as  strongly  defined.  The  expression  has  been  over- 
charged, pressure  added  to  pressure,  until  the  persons  charac- 
terized have  been  transformed  into  personified  characters,  and 
vicious  or  virtuous  human  beings  into  haggard  skeletons  of  vice 
or  virtue. 


PHILOSOPHY  CONSIDERED  AS  THE 

ART  OF  LIFE  AND  HEALING 

ART  OF  THE  SOUL 


BY 


CHRISTOPHER    MARTIN    WIELAND 


CHRISTOPHER  MARTIN  WIELAND 

1733— 1813 

Like  Lessing,  Christopher  Martin  Wieland  was  the  son  of  a  clergy- 
man. Born  in  the  village  of  Oberholzheim,  in  Wiirtemberg,  in  the 
year  1733,  he  displayed  at  an  early  age  a  remarkable  aptitude  for  poetry. 
Some  of  his  youthful  productions,  written  soon  after  he  left  the  Uni- 
versity of  Tiibingen,  awakened  Bodmer's  interest  in  him.  The  Swiss 
poet  and  critic  invited  his  young  protege  to  Zurich,  where  he  re- 
mained eight  years.  During  the  next  decade  of  the  poet's  life  there 
were  many  changes  of  occupation  and  residence.  But  better  things 
were  in  store  for  him.  In  1769  he  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of 
philosophy  and  literature  at  the  University  of  Erfurt.  Three  years 
later  he  became  tutor  to  the  sons  of  the  Duchess  Amalia  of  Saxe- 
Weimar.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  was  enabled  to  devote 
himself  entirely  to  literary  pursuits,  and  thus  the  great  wish  of  his  life 
had  become  a  reality.  Henceforth  he  lived  at  Weimar,  an  intimate 
companion  of  the  great  German  poets  of  his  time.  He  died  there  in 
1813,  at  the  age  of  eighty. 

Wieland  was  a  very  prolific  writer.  In  addition  to  his  translations 
from  Shakespeare,  Horace,  Lucian,  and  Cicero,  we  possess  more  than 
fifty  volumes  of  writings  from  his  own  pen.  It  cannot  be  said  of  him 
that  all  his  literary  productions  are  of  genuine  or  equal  merit.  Some 
have  become  classical,  others  are  little  read  now,  and  almost  for- 
gotten. We  find  in  his  works  a  great  diversity  in  form  as  well  as  in 
spirit.  He  possessed  a  marked  aptitude  for  versification,  as  his  poetic 
writings  abundantly  prove.  The  spiritual  changes  he  underwent,  the 
progressive  views  of  life  he  acquired  with  age  and  different  surround- 
ings are  equally  manifest  in  his  works.  At  Zurich  the  young  Wieland 
was  religiously  inclined,  puritanical,  and  ascetic.  Later  in  life,  and  un- 
der more  liberal  influences,  associated  with  men  in  touch  and  sympathy 
with  the  Encyclopaedists,  he  went  to  the  other  extreme,  and  his  spiritual 
emancipation  was  complete. 

We  have  already  indicated  the  character  of  his  earlier  works.  His 
"  Agathon,"  however,  published  in  1767,  his  "  Musarion,"  and  a  num- 
ber of  other  poetical  works  of  less  importance,  but  of  great  popularity 
among  his  contemporaries,  placed  Wieland  at  the  head  of  the  national 
literature  of  his  day.  Immediately  upon  his  arrival  at  Weimar  he 
established  a  monthly  literary  periodical,  "  The  German  Mercury," 
which  he  continued  to  edit  for  thirty-seven  years,  and  this  enterprise 
greatly  increased  his  literary  influence.  It  was  in  the  pages  of  this 
publication  that  many  of  his  prose  writings,  chiefly  literary  and  philo- 
sophical essays,  first  appeared,  including  his  essay  on  "  Philosophy 
Considered  as  the  Art  of  Life,"  and  that  "  On  the  Relation  of  the 
Agreeable  and  the  Beautiful  to  the  Useful."  Of  Wieland's  later  works 
the  most  important  is  his  romantic  epic  "  Oberon,"  now  regarded  as 
the  best  of  his  productions. 

Both  in  prose  and  verse  Wieland  was  a  master  of  literary  composi- 
tion, and  most  of  the  younger  writers  of  his  day  learned  much  from 
the  clearness,  ease,  and  grace  of  his  style.  If  Lessing  gave  precision 
to  modern  German  prose,  Wieland  gave  it  elegance  and  fluency.  His 
work,  at  once  graceful  anu  fanciful,  is  pervaded  by  a  quaint  humor 
and  delicate  irony  that  give  it  a  lasting  charm.  Wic'ind  holds  an 
important  and  even  illustrious  place  in  German  literature.  His  share 
in  the  development  of  the  epic  form  of  poetry  in  Germany  is  undisputed, 
while,  with  his  universal  popularity  with  all  classes,  he  wielded  an  in- 
fluence which  it  would  be  difficult  to  overestimate,  and  wliich  was 
jittained  by  few  of  his  contemporaries. 


PHILOSOPHY  CONSIDERED  AS  THE   ART  OF 
LIFE  AND  HEALING  ART  OF  THE  SOUL 

MEN  had  lived,  and  perhaps  Hved  many  thousand  years, 
before  one  of  them  hit  upon  the  thought  that  hfe  could 
be  an  art ;  and,  in  all  probability,  every  other  art,  from 
the  arts  of  Tubal  Cain  to  the  art  of  catching  flies — which  Shah 
Baham,  a  peritus  in  arte,  assures  us,  is  not  so  easy  a  matter  as 
some  people  imagine — had  long  been  invented,  when,  at  last,  the 
sagacious  Greeks,  along  with  other  fine  arts  and  sciences,  in- 
vented also  this  famous  art  of  life,  called  philosophy  :  or,  if  they 
did  not  altogether  invent  it,  first  reduced  it  to  the  form  of  art, 
and  carried  it  to  a  high  degree  of  refinement. 

By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  children  of  men  never  dreamed 
that  there  was  such  an  art.  People  lived  without  knowing  how 
they  did  it,  very  much  as  Mons.  Jourdain  in  Moliere's  "  Citizen 
Gentleman,"  had  talked  prose  all  his  life,  or  as  we  all  draw 
breath,  digest,  perform  various  motions,  grow  and  thrive,  with- 
out one  in  a  thousand  knowing  or  desiring  to  know  by  what 
mechanical  laws  or  by  what  combination  of  causes  all  these 
things  are  done.  And  in  this  thick  fog  of  ignorance  innumera- 
ble nations  in  Asia,  Africa,  America,  and  the  islands  of  the 
South  Sea,  white  and  olive,  yellow-black  and  pitch-black, 
bearded  and  unbearded,  circumcised  and  uncircumcised,  tat- 
tooed and  untattooed,  with  and  without  rings  through  the  nose, 
from  the  giants  in  Patagonia  to  the  dwarfs  on  Hudson's  Bay, 
etc.,  etc.,  live  to  this  hour.  And  not  only  so,  but  even  of  the 
greatest  portion  of  the  inhabitants  of  our  enlightened  Europe, 
it  may  be  maintained  with  truth,  that  they  know  as  little  about 
said  art  of  life  and  that  they  care  as  little  about  it  as  the  careless 
people  of  Otaheite  or  the  half-frozen  inhabitants  of  Terra  del 
Fuego,  who  are  scarcely  more  than  sea-calves. 

The  strangest  part  of  this  business  is,  that  all  these  people, 


122  WIELAND 

who,  according  to  a  very  moderate  calculation,  constitute  nearly 
the  whole  human  race — like  their  ancestors  as  far  back  as  Adam 
and  Eve,  who  also  knew  nothing  of  the  aforesaid  fine  art — not- 
withstanding their  ignorance,  live  away  as  courageously  as  if 
they  were  finished  masters  of  it.  Nay  more,  the  greater  part 
of  these  bunglers  get  on  so  well,  as  it  respects  all  the  most  es- 
sential and  important  functions  of  human  life,  that  scarcely  one 
of  the  hired  masters  and  professors  of  the  art  can  hold  a  candle 
to  them. 

Cicero  says  somewhere,  "  Nature  is  the  best  guide  of  life," 
which  probably  means,  that  Nature  shows  us  best  how  we  may 
help  ourselves  through  this  earthly  state.  Further,  he  says, 
"  No  one  can  fail  who  suffers  himself  to  be  guided  by  her."  On 
this  guidance,  therefore,  it  would  seem  that  men  must  always 
have  relied.  This  same  Nature,  they  thought,  which  teaches 
us  to  breathe,  eat,  drink,  to  move  hands  and  feet,  etc.,  teaches 
us  also  how  to  use  our  senses,  our  memory,  our  understanding, 
and  all  our  other  powers ;  teaches  us  what  is  fitting  and  what 
is  not  fitting.  It  requires  only  so  much  attention  as  every  object 
enforces  of  itself,  to  see  and  feel  whether  it  is  friendly  or  hostile. 
Our  nose  and  our  tongue  teach  us,  without  any  other  instruc- 
tion, what  fruits,  herbs,  and  roots,  etc.,  are  good  to  eat.  At  a 
pinch,  hunger  teaches  the  same,  without  much  circumstance. 
Nature  has  provided  for  all  pressing  necessities.  Either  the 
thing  which  we  require  exists  already ;  and  then  we  have  what- 
ever is  needed  to  seize  and  enjoy  it ;  or,  at  least,  the  materials  of 
it  exist;  and  then  we  have  just  so  much  understanding,  power, 
and  natural  dexterity  in  our  members  as  is  necessary  to  form 
those  materials  to  our  use  and  purpose.  What  does  not  suc- 
ceed the  first  time  will  succeed  the  tenth  or  the  twentieth.  If 
two  arms  are  not  sufficient,  four,  six,  eight  will  accomplish  it. 
Every  new  trial  adds  something  to  our  knowledge  of  the  thing, 
and  to  our  faculty.  We  learn  by  errors  and  failures,  and  be- 
come masters  by  practice,  without  perceiving  how  it  has  come 
about.  And  this  same  Nature  which  carries  us  so  far,  always 
conceals  from  us  what  lies  too  far  to  be  reached  from  the  place 
assigned  us;  makes  us  happy  by  ignorance,  and  has  given  us 
this  beneficent  sluggishness,  of  which  the  world-reformers  make 
so  much  complaint,  for  no  other  purpose  but  that  the  everlasting 
desire  to  improve  our  condition  may  not  cause  us  to  fall  from 


PHILOSOPHY   CONSIDERED  AS  THE  ART  OF   LIFE    123 

the  frying-pan  into  the  fire,  and  that  we  may  not  fare  like  that 
man  who,  in  order  to  feel  better,  physicked  himself  to  death, 
and  had  for  his  epitaph :  Per  star  meglio  sto  qui. 

So  Nature  teaches  all  men  how  to  live,  who  have  not  run  away 
from  the  instruction  and  discipline  of  the  good  Mother.  And, 
in  all  this,  as  you  perceive,  there  is  no  art.  It  is  Nature  herself, 
bodily.  The  celebrated  Quam  multis  non  ego!  of  the  ancient 
philosopher  is  the  native  philosophy  of  all  Samoyedes,  Lap- 
landers, Esquimaux,  etc. — a  philosophy  in  which  the  New  Hol- 
landers or  the  New  Walesmen,  as  the  honest  people  must  suffer 
themselves  to  be  called,  according  to  the  arbitrary  pleasure  of 
the  gentlemen  with  the  firelocks,  who  have  the  command,  ap- 
pear to  have  made  the  greatest  progress.  Let  no  man  come  and 
say  that  such  a  life  is  an  oyster-life.  Call  it,  if  you  please,  a 
continual  childhood ;  but  honor  Nature  who  conducts  these  her 
children,  by  the  shortest  route,  to  the  beate  vivere  at  which  we 
enlightened  people  seldom  or  never  arrive,  merely  on  account 
of  the  great  multitude  of  roads  which  lead  to  it. 

The  wise  Theophrastus  (not  Paracelsus,  but  the  scholar  and 
successor  of  the  divine  Aristotle)  lived  ninety  years,  and  when 
he  came  to  die,  he  complained  against  Nature  because  "  she  has 
given  man  so  little  time  to  live,  and  because  an  honest  fellow 
must  die  at  the  very  moment  when  he  has  begun  to  comprehend 
a  little  the  art  of  life."  When  did  ever  a  New  Hollander  make 
so  unreasonable  a  complaint?  When  he  has  come  to  be  a 
hundred  years  old  (which  is  nothing  rare  with  them)  he  has 
lived  just  one  hundred  years,  and  rises  satisfied  from  the  ban- 
quet of  Nature ;  and  truly,  a  banquet  that,  in  which  Nature 
furnishes  such  poor  entertainment,  that  the  strictest  candidate 
for  canonization  need  not  scruple  to  share  it. 

But — let  me  remark  in  passing — I  am  very  far  from  believ- 
ing that  Theophrastus  made  the  foolish  speech  which  is  imputed 
to  him.  The  people  around  his  bed  did  not  exactly  understand 
what  he  said,  and  then  some  schoolmaster  came  along,  a  good 
while  after,  and  tried  to  make  sense  of  it,  and  made  nonsense. 
I  would  bet  that  Theophrastus  meant  neither  more  nor  less  than 
this:  that  he  regretted  he  had  not  been  wise  enough,  sixty  or 
seventy  years  before,  to  see  that  he  might  have  saved  himself  the 
trouble  of  studying,  as  art  and  science,  what  Nature  would 
have  taught  him  far  better  and  more  surely,  without  study,  if 


124 


WIELAND 


he  had  had  the  simplicity  of  mind  to  heed  her  instruction.  It 
was  not  innocent  Nature  but  his  own  folly  that  he  blamed,  as 
most  men  are  wont  to  do  in  his  case;  although  they  might  as 
well  let  it  alone ;  for  what  is  the  use  of  repentance  when  one  has 
no  time  left  for  amendment  ? 

Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said,  it  is  by  no  means  my 
intention  to  dispute  the  value,  whatever  it  may  be,  of  the  above- 
mentioned  art  of  life. 

It  has  somewhere  been  said,  that  art  is,  at  bottom,  nothing 
else  than  Nature  herself,  who,  by  means  of  man,  as  her  most 
perfect  instrument,  unfolds  and  brings  to  perfection  under  a 
different  name,  what  before  she  had  merely  sketched,  as  it  were, 
or  hastily  begun.  If  art  is  that,  and  so  far  as  it  is  that,  it  is 
worthy  of  all  honor. 

Yes,  even  then,  when  it  merely  comes  in  aid  of  enfeebled  or 
corrupted  Nature,  it  is,  like  the  art  of  medicine,  sometimes  bene- 
ficial, although  often  just  as  uncertain  and  just  as  ineffectual 
as  that.  When  Nature  no  longer  suffices  for  the  support  of 
life,  then,  to  be  sure,  art  must  patch  and  prop,  and  plaster  and 
doctor  as  well  as  it  can.  Or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  even  in 
this  case,  the  good,  universal  Mother  has  provided  for  her 
darling  child.  She  has  remedies  in  her  store-chamber  for  every 
wound  or  disease  of  the  outward  or  the  inward  man,  so  that 
art  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  observe  and  to  exhibit.  The  simpler 
then  the  remedies  are,  the  less  they  have  been  tampered  with, 
the  better  for  the  sufferer.  And  still,  the  successful  issue  must 
be  expected  from  Nature  alone.  If  she  has  strength  enough 
left  to  raise  herself  up  by  the  hand  of  art,  well  and  good  ;  if  not, 
then,  for  art  too,  nothing  remains,  but  to  let  the  sick  man  die  and 
to  embalm  the  dead.  Art  cannot  supply  the  power  of  life  where 
it  is  wanting. 

It  was  long  ago  that  philosophy,  on  account  of  this  resemblance 
to  the  healing  art,  received  the  name  of  "  medicine  for  the  soul." 
And  truly,  this  qualification  seems  better  adapted  to  secure  its 
acceptance,  than  when  it  claims  to  teach  us  to  live  according  to 
the  rules  of  art.  For  who  that  has  the  free  use  of  his  natural 
powers  does  not  feel  that  he  can  live  without  it  ?  On  the  other 
hand,  when  it  presents  itself  only  as  physician*,  then  the  well 
know  that  they  have  notiiing  to  do  with  it. 

The  Indians  in  the  islands  of  the  South  Sea,  it  seems,  are  un- 


PHILOSOPHY   CONSIDERED   AS   THE   ART   OF   LIFE     125 

acquainted  with  medicines.  With  them  sHght  wounds  or  ill- 
nesses heal  themselves ;  and  of  great  ones  they  die — as  we  do. 
And  as  they  are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  no  idea  of  a  soul  in  and 
of  itself,  as  a  man  in  their  apprehension  is  always  a  man,  made 
out  of  one  piece,  so  they  know  nothing  of  particular  diseases 
of  the  soul ;  or  if  ever  they  experience  an  attack  of  this  kind, 
the  hunger-cure,  for  which  they  have  but  too  frequent  oppor- 
tunity, is  generally  the  most  efit'ectual  remedy. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  progress  of  refinement  in  a  na- 
tion has  gone  so  far,  that  body  and  soul,  instead  of  being  as  they 
should  be  one  person,  are  treated  as  two  powers  with  different 
interests,  each  having  its  separate  establishment,  like  naughty 
husbands  and  wives ;  what  is  more  natural  than  that  bad  conse- 
quences should  result  from  such  an  ill-starred  union?  Man  is 
then  no  longer  that  noble  being  in  whom  all  is  sense  and  power 
and  soul,  in  whom,  so  to  speak,  everything  corporeal  is  spiritual, 
and  everything  spiritual,  corporeal.  He  is  an  unnatural,  cen- 
taur-like compound  of  animal  and  spirit,  in  which  the  one  lives 
at  the  other's  expense,  in  which  the  animal  creates  for  itself 
necessities,  the  spirit  passions,  projects,  and  aims  of  which  the 
natural  man  knows  nothing.  Each  oppresses,  drags,  worries, 
and  exhausts  the  other  as  much  as  it  can,  and  a  vast  number  of 
bodily  and  mental  diseases  are  the  ultimate  fruit  of  this  putting 
asunder  what  God  had  joined  together.  In  such  cases,  when 
the  evil  has  reached  its  height,  that  "  medical  art  for  the  soul  " 
may  ofifer  its  aid  with  some  degree  of  success ;  and  either  re- 
lieve the  patient  by  purging,  bleeding,  and  clysters ;  or,  at  least, 
by  means  of  agreeable  opiates,  procure  for  him  a  delusive  rest. 

But  this  art  has  never  yet  been  found  able  to  effect  a  radical 
cure ;  and  we  may  boldly  maintain,  that  when  a  nation  has  once 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  two  goddesses  of  healing,  it  is  irre- 
coverably lost ;  not  because  one  must  needs  burst  with  their 
medicines,  but  because  whenever  they  are  resorted  to,  the  evil 
has  already  proceeded  too  far  to  admit  of  entire  restoration. 

I  said  philosophy  might  the  rather  maintain  its  place,  as  heal- 
ing art  for  the  soul,  because  then,  the  well  would  know  that  they 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  But  as  all  arts  love  to  make  them- 
selves more  important  than  they  are,  so  this  art,  too,  has  found 
means  to  impose  itself  upon  all  the  world  as  indispensable. 
Like  its  sister  art,  which  ministers  to  the  body,  it  will  not  allow 


126  WIELAND 

anyone  to  be  entirely  well.  According  to  its  doctrine  and  its 
ideal  of  health,  the  whole  earth  is  one  great  lazar-house  of  bodily 
and  mental  diseases,  and  there  is  no  man  well  enough  to  dispense 
with  its  prescriptions.  Happily,  this  assumption  is  not  con- 
ceded to  either  of  these  arts.  Nature  knows  nothing  of  ideals. 
As  long  as  a  man  feels  himself  sound,  he  has  a  right  to  think 
himself  sound;  and,  without  troubling  himself  whether  others 
object  to  that  view  or  not,  he  lives  straight  forward  as  a  healthy 
man;  and  (like  Voltaire's  Zadig)  reads  not  a  letter  of  all  the 
learned  dissertations,  in  which  gentlemen  undertake  to  prove 
it  impossible  that  he  should  be  well.  There  are  cases,  it  is 
true,  in  which  a  sick  man  is  only  the  more  dangerously  sick,  be- 
cause unconscious  of  his  malady.  But  these  cases  are  rare,  and 
cannot  deprive  the  great  mass  of  those  who  feel  well,  of  their 
traditional  right  to  that  feeling. 


ON  THE  NATURE  OF  MA 


OF  THE  TRUTH  OF  PHYSIOGNOMY 


BY 


JOHANN    KASPAR    LAVATER 


JOHANN    KASPAR    LAVATER 

1741 — 1801 

Switzerland  claims  no  small  share  in  the  literary  honors  of  Germany; 
one  of  the  most  notable  of  the  Swiss  contributors  to  German  litera- 
ture being  Johann  Kaspar  Lavater,  who  was  born  at  Zurich  in  1741. 
He  received  his  education  in  the  grammar  school  and  university  of 
his  native  town,  and  in  1762  was  ordained  a  minister.  Nearly  his 
whole  life  was  spent  in  preaching  to  various  churches  in  Zurich  and 
in  devoting  himself  to  charitable  work,  for  which  he  displayed  an 
unbounded  zeal.  In  1798  Lavater's  public  and  outspoken  protest 
against  the  ravages  of  the  French  troops,  who  were  at  that  time  occu- 
pying Switzerland,  gained  the  applause  of  Europe.  The  following 
year,  while  standing  in  front  of  his  own  house,  he  was  shot  by  a  French 
soldier.  He  never  recovered  from  the  wound,  and  died  from  its  effects 
two  years  later,  after  much  suffering. 

Lavater  is  best  known  by  his  works  on  physiognomy,  the  first  of 
which  was  published  in  1772.  Three  years  later  appeared  the  first 
volume  of  his  celebrated  "  Physiognomical  Fragments  for  the  Promotion 
of  Knowledge  and  Love  of  Mankind,"  his  most  important  work. 
Goethe  contributed  to  it  a  chapter  on  the  skulls  of  animals.  Besides 
numerous  other  treatises  on  physiognomy  he  wrote  on  theology  as 
well.  His  works  were  at  one  time  extravagantly  praised  by  his  con- 
temporaries, but  as  original  contributions  to  the  fund  of  human  knowl- 
edge they  have  failed  to  stand  the  test  of  time.  Lavater  is  important, 
however,  in  the  history  of  German  thought  and  civilization  as  one 
of  the  most  interesting  literary  figures  of  his  generation.  His  per- 
sonality was  sufficient  to  impress  Goethe,  and  the  observations  of  the 
latter  would  seem  to  indicate  that  the  man  was  greater  than  his  works. 

Lavater's  style  is  vivid  and  declamatory,  and  betrays  a  genuine  depth 
of  conviction  that  inspired  respect  and  gave  him  a  great  personal  in- 
fluence. He  is  sometimes  very  abstruse ;  but  he  is  always  entertaining. 
There  is  no  writer  in  all  literature  whose  personal  character  was  purer 
or  nobler,  or  whose  life  was  more  unselfish.  The  essays  "  On  the  Nat- 
ure of  Man  "  and  "  Of  the  Truth  of  Physiognomy  "  are  excellent  and 
representative  examples  of  his  style. 


taS 


ON  THE  NATURE  OF  MAN 

Which  is  the  Foundation  of  the  Science  of  Physiognomy 

OF  all  earthly  creatures  man  is  the  most  perfect,  the  most 
imbued  with  the  principles  of  life. 

Each  particle  of  matter  is  an  immensity ;  each  leaf 
a  world ;  each  insect  an  inexplicable  compendium.  Who  then 
shall  enumerate  the  gradations  between  insect  and  man?  In 
him  all  the  powers  of  nature  are  united.  He  is  the  essence 
of  creation.  The  son  of  earth,  he  is  the  earth's  lord ;  the  sum- 
mary and  central  point  of  all  existence,  of  all  powers,  and  of 
all  life,  on  that  earth  which  he  inhabits. 

Of  all  organized  beings  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  man 
alone  excepted,  there  are  none  in  which  are  so  wonderfully 
united  the  three  different  kinds  of  life,  the  animal,  the  intel- 
lectual, and  the  moral.  Each  of  these  lives  is  the  compendium 
of  various  faculties,  most  wonderfully  compounded  and  har- 
monized. 

To  know,  to  desire,  to  act,  or  accurately  to  observe  and 
meditate ;  to  perceive  and  to  wish ;  to  possess  the  powers  of 
motion  and  of  resistance ;  these  combined,  constitute  man  an 
animal,  intellectual,  and  moral  being. 

Man,  endowed  with  these  faculties,  with  this  triple  life,  is  in 
himself  the  most  worthy  subject  of  observation,  as  he  likewise 
is  himself  the  most  worthy  observer.  Under  whatever  point 
of  view  he  may  be  considered,  what  is  more  worthy  of  con- 
templation than  himself?  In  him  each  species  of  life  is  con- 
spicuous ;  yet  never  can  his  properties  be  wholly  known,  ex- 
cept by  the  aid  of  his  external  form,  his  body,  his  superficies. 
How  spiritual,  how  incorporeal  soever,  his  internal  essence 
may  be,  still  is  he  only  visible  and  conceivable  from  the  har- 
mony of  his  constituent  parts.     From  these  he  is  inseparable. 

129 


I30  LAVATER 

He  exists  and  moves  in  the  body  he  inhabits,  as  in  his  element. 
This  material  man  must  become  the  subject  of  observation. 
All  the  knowledge  we  can  obtain  of  man  must  be  gained 
through  the  medium  of  our  senses. 

This  threefold  life,  which  man  cannot  be  denied  to  possess, 
necessarily  first  becomes  the  subject  of  disquisition  and  re- 
search, as  it  presents  itself  in  the  form  of  body,  and  in  such  of 
his  faculties  as  are  apparent  to  sense. 

There  is  no  object  in  nature,  the  properties  and  powers  of 
which  can  be  manifest  to  us  in  any  other  manner  than  by  such 
external  appearances  as  affect  the  senses.  By  these  all  beings 
are  characterized.  They  are  the  foundations  of  all  human 
knowledge.  Man  must  wander  in  the  darkest  ignorance, 
equally  with  respect  to  himself  and  the  objects  that  surround 
him,  did  he  not  become  acquainted  with  their  properties  and 
powers  by  the  aid  of  their  externals ;  and  had  not  each  object 
a  character  peculiar  to  its  nature  and  essence,  which  acquaints 
us  with  what  it  is,  and  enables  us  to  distinguish  it  from  what 
it  is  not. 

All  bodies  which  we  survey  appear  to  sight  under  a  certain 
form  and  superficies.  We  behold  those  outlines  traced  which 
are  the  result  of  their  organization.  I  hope  I  shall  be  par- 
doned the  repetition  of  such  commonplace  truths,  since  on 
these  are  built  the  science  of  physiognomy,  or  the  proper  study 
of  man.  However  true  these  axioms,  with  respect  to  visible 
objects,  and  particularly  to  organized  bodies,  they  are  still 
more  extensively  true  when  applied  to  man,  and  his  nature. 
The  organization  of  man  peculiarly  distinguishes  him  from  all 
other  earthly  beings ;  and  his  physiognomy,  that  is  to  say,  the 
superficies  and  outlines  of  this  organization,  show  him  to  be 
infinitely  superior  to  all  those  visible  beings  by  which  he  is 
surrounded. 

We  are  unacquainted  with  any  form  equally  noble,  equally 
majestic,  with  that  of  man,  and  in  which  so  many  kinds  of  life, 
oO  many  powers,  so  many  virtues  of  action  and  motion,  unite, 
as  in  a  central  point.  With  firm  step  he  advances  over  the 
earth's  surface,  and  with  erect  body  raises  his  head  toward 
heaven.  He  looks  forward  to  infinitude ;  he  acts  with  facility 
and  swiftness  inconceivable,  and  his  motions  are  the  most  im- 
mediate and  the  most  varied.     By  whom  may  their  varieties 


ON    THE   NATURE   OF    MAN  131 

be  enumerated?  He  can  at  once  both  suffer  and  perform  in- 
finitely more  than  any  other  creature.  He  unites  flexibiHty 
and  fortitude,  strength  and  dexterity,  activity  and  rest.  Of  ail 
creatures  he  can  the  soonest  yield,  and  the  longest  resist. 
None  resemble  him  in  the  variety  and  harmony  of  his  powers. 
His  faculties,  like  his  form,  are  peculiar  to  himself. 

How  much  nobler,  more  astonishing,  and  more  attractive 
will  this  form  become,  when  we  discover  that  it  is  itself  the 
interpreter  of  all  the  high  powers  it  possesses,  active  and 
passive !  Only  in  those  parts  in  which  animal  strength  and 
properties  reside  does  it  resemble  animals.  But  how  much  is 
it  exalted  above  the  brute  in  those  parts  in  which  are  the  pow- 
ers of  superior  origin,  the  powers  of  mind,  of  motion ! 

The  form  and  proportion  of  man,  his  superior  height,  capa- 
ble of  so  many  changes,  and  such  variety  of  motion,  prove  to 
the  unprejudiced  observer  his  supereminent  strength,  and  as- 
tonishing facility  of  action.  The  high  excellence  and  physi- 
ological unity  of  human  nature  are  visible  at  the  first  glance. 
The  head,  especially  the  face,  and  the  formation  of  the  firm 
parts,  compared  to  the  firm  parts  of  other  animals,  convince 
the  accurate  observer,  who  is  capable  of  investigating  truth, 
of  the  greatness  and  superiority  of  his  intellectual  qualities. 
The  eye,  the  look,  the  cheeks,  the  mouth,  the  forehead,  whether 
considered  in  a  state  of  entire  rest  or  during  their  innumerable 
varieties  of  motion,  in  fine,  all  that  is  understood  by  physiog- 
nomy, is  the  most  expressive,  the  most  convincing  picture  of 
interior  sensation,  desires,  passions,  will,  and  of  all  those  prop- 
erties which  so  much  exalt  moral  above  animal  life. 

Although  the  physiological,  intellectual,  and  moral  life  of 
man,  with  all  their  subordinate  powers  and  their  constituent 
parts,  so  eminently  unite  in  one  being ;  although  these  three 
kinds  of  life  do  not,  like  three  distinct  families,  reside  in  sep- 
arate parts,  or  stories  of  the  body ;  but  co-exist  in  one  point, 
and  by  their  combination  form  one  whole ;  yet  is  it  plain  that 
each  of  these  powers  of  life  has  its  peculiar  station,  where  it 
more  especially  unfolds  itself,  and  acts. 

It  is  beyond  contradiction  evident  that,  though  physiological 
or  animal  life  displays  itself  through  all  the  body,  and  especially 
through  all  the  animal  parts,  yet  does  it  act  most  conspicuously 
in  the  arm,  from  the  shoulder  to  the  ends  of  the  fingers. 


132  LAVATER 

It  is  equally  clear  that  intellectual  life,  or  the  powers  of  the 
understanding  and  the  mind,  make  themselves  most  apparent 
in  the  circumference  and  form  of  the  solid  parts  of  the  head, 
especially  the  forehead;  though  they  will  discover  themselves 
to  an  attentive  and  accurate  eye  in  every  part  and  point  of  the 
human  body,  by  the  congeniality  and  harmony  of  the  various 
parts,  as  will  be  frequently  noticed  in  the  course  of  this  work* 
Is  there  any  occasion  to  prove  that  the  power  of  thinking  re- 
sides neither  in  the  foot,  in  the  hand,  nor  in  the  back ;  but  in 
the  head,  and  its  internal  parts? 

The  moral  life  of  man,  particularly,  reveals  itself  in  the  lines, 
marks,  and  transitions  of  the  countenance.  His  moral  powers 
and  desires,  his  irritability,  sympathy,  and  antipathy;  his  fa- 
cility of  attracting  or  repelling  the  objects  that  surround  him; 
these  are  all  summed  up  in,  and  painted  upon,  his  countenance 
when  at  rest.  When  any  passion  is  called  into  action,  such 
passion  is  depicted  by  the  motion  of  the  muscles,  and  these 
motions  are  accompanied  by  a  strong  palpitation  of  the  heart. 
If  the  countenance  be  tranquil,  it  always  denotes  tranquillity 
in  the  region  of  the  heart  and  breast. 

This  threefold  life  of  man,  so  intimately  interwoven  through 
his  frame,  is  still  capable  of  being  studied  in  its  different  ap- 
propriate parts ;  and  did  we  live  in  a  less  depraved  world  we 
should  find  sufficient  data  for  the  science  of  physiognomy. 

The  animal  life,  the  lowest  and  most  earthly,  would  discover 
itself  from  the  rim  of  the  belly  to  the  organs  of  generation, 
which  would  become  its  central  or  focal  point.  The  middle 
or  moral  life  would  be  seated  in  the  breast,  and  the  heart  would 
be  its  central  point.  The  intellectual  life,  which  of  the  three 
is  supreme,  would  reside  in  the  head,  and  have  the  eye  for  its 
centre.  If  we  take  the  countenance  as  the  representative  and 
epitome  of  the  three  divisions,  then  will  the  forehead,  to  the 
eyebrows,  be  the  mirror,  or  image,  of  the  understanding ;  the 
nose  and  cheeks  the  image  of  the  moral  and  sensitive  Hfe ;  and 
the  mouth  and  chin  the  image  of  the  animal  life ;  while  the  eye 
will  be  to  the  whole  as  its  summary  and  centre.  I  may  also 
add  that  the  closed  mouth  at  the  moment  of  most  perfect  tran- 
quillity is  the  central  point  of  the  radii  of  the  countenance.  It 
cannot  however  too  often  be  repeated  that  these  three  lives,  by 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   MAN  133 

their  intimate  connection  with  each  other,  are  all,  and  each, 
expressed  in  every  part  of  the  body. 

What  we  have  hitherto  said  is  so  clear,  so  well  known,  so 
universal,  that  we  should  blush  to  insist  upon  such  common- 
place truths,  were  they  not,  first,  the  foundation  on  which  we 
must  build  all  we  have  to  propose ;  and,  again,  had  not  these 
truths  (can  it  be  believed  by  futurity  ?)  in  this  our  age  been  so 
many  thousand  times  mistaken  and  contested,  with  the  most 
inconceivable  affectation. 

The  science  of  physiognomy,  whether  understood  in  the 
most  enlarged  or  most  confined  sense,  indubitably  depends  on 
these  general  and  incontrovertible  principles ;  yet,  incontro- 
vertible as  they  are,  they  have  not  been  without  their  oppon- 
ents. Men  pretend  to  doubt  of  the  most  striking,  the  most 
convincing,  the  most  self-evident  truths ;  although,  were  these 
destroyed,  neither  truth  nor  knowledge  would  remain.  They 
do  not  profess  to  doubt  concerning  the  physiognomy  of  other 
natural  objects,  yet  do  they  doubt  the  physiognomy  of  human 
nature ;  the  first  object,  the  most  worthy  of  contemplation,  and 
the  most  animated  which  the  realms  of  nature  contain. 


OF  THE   TRUTH   OF   PHYSIOGNOMY 

ALL  countenances,  all  forms,  all  created  beings,  are  not 
only  different  from  each  other  in  their  classes,  races, 
and  kinds,  but  are  also  individually  distinct. 

Each  being  differs  from  every  other  being  of  its  species. 
However  generally  known,  it  is  a  truth  the  most  important  to 
our  purpose,  and  necessary  to  repeat,  that,  "  There  is  no  rose 
perfectly  similar  to  another  rose,  no  egg  to  an  egg,  no  eel  to 
an  eel,  no  lion  to  a  lion,  no  eagle  to  an  eagle,  no  man  to  a 
man," 

Confining  this  proposition  to  man  only,  it  is  the  first,  the 
most  profound,  most  secure,  and  unshaken  foundation-stone 
of  physiognomy  that,  however  intimate  the  analogy  and  sim- 
ilarity of  the  innumerable  forms  of  men,  no  two  men  can  be 
found  who,  brought  together,  and  accurately  compared,  will 
not  appear  to  be  very  remarkably  different. 

Nor  is  it  less  incontrovertible  that  it  is  equally  impossible 
to  find  two  minds,  as  two  countenances,  which  perfectly  re- 
semble each  other. 

This  consideration  alone  will  be  sufficient  to  make  it  received 
as  a  truth,  not  requiring  farther  demonstration,  that  there  must 
be  a  certain  native  analogy  between  the  external  varieties  of 
the  countenance  and  form,  and  the  internal  varieties  of  the 
mind.  Shall  it  be  denied  that  this  acknowledged  internal 
variety  among  all  men  is  the  cause  of  the  external  variety  of 
their  forms  and  countenances?  Shall  it  be  affirmed  that  the 
mind  does  not  influence  the  body,  or  that  the  body  does  not 
influence  the  mind? 

Anger  renders  the  muscles  protuberant :  and  shall  not  there- 
fore an  angry  mind  and  protuberant  muscles  be  considered 
as  cause  and  effect? 

After  repeated  observation  that  an  active  and  vivid  eye  and 
an  active  and  acute  wit  are  frequently  found  in  the  same  per- 

135 


136  LAVATER 

son,  shall  it  be  supposed  that  there  is  no  relation  between  the 
active  eye  and  the  active  mind?  Is  this  the  effect  of  accident? 
Of  accident!  Ought  it  not  rather  to  be  considered  as  sym- 
pathy, an  interchangeable  and  instantaneous  effect,  when  we 
perceive  that,  at  the  very  moment  the  understanding  is  most 
acute  and  penetrating  and  the  wit  the  most  lively,  the  motion 
and  fire  of  the  eye  undergo,  at  that  moment,  the  most  visible 
change  ? 

Shall  the  open,  friendly,  and  unsuspecting  eye  and  the  open, 
friendly,  and  unsuspecting  heart  be  united  in  a  thousand  in- 
stances, and  shall  we  say  the  one  is  not  the  cause,  the  other 
the  effect? 

Shall  nature  discover  wisdom  and  order  in  all  things ;  shall 
corresponding  causes  and  effects  be  everywhere  united;  shall 
this  be  the  most  clear,  the  most  indubitable  of  truths ;  and  in 
the  first,  the  most  noble  of  the  works  of  nature,  shall  she  act 
arbitrarily,  without  design,  without  law?  The  human  coun- 
tenance, that  mirror  of  the  Divinity,  that  noblest  of  the  works 
of  the  Creator — shall  not  motive  and  action,  shall  not  the  cor- 
respondence between  the  interior  and  the  exterior,  the  visible 
and  the  invisible,  the  cause  and  the  effect,  be  there  apparent  ? 

Yet  this  is  all  denied  by  those  who  oppose  the  truth  of  the 
science  of  physiognomy. 

Truth,  according  to  them,  is  ever  at  variance  with  itself. 
Eternal  order  is  degraded  to  a  juggler,  whose  purpose  it  is  to 
deceive. 

Calm  reason  revolts  at  the  supposition  that  Newton  or  Leib- 
nitz ever  could  have  the  countenance  and  appearance  of  an 
idiot,  incapable  of  a  firm  step,  a  meditating  eye;  of  compre- 
hending the  least  difficult  of  abstract  propositions,  or  of  ex- 
pressing himself  so  as  to  be  understood ;  that  one  of  these  in 
the  brain  of  a  Laplander  conceived  his  "  Theodica  " ;  and  that 
the  other  in  the  head  of  an  Esquimaux,  who  wants  the  power 
to  number  farther  than  six,  and  affirms  all  beyond  to  be  in- 
numerable, had  dissected  the  rays  of  light,  and  weighed 
worlds. 

Calm  reason  revolts  when  it  is  asserted  that  the  strong  man 
may  appear  perfectly  like  the  weak,  the  man  in  full  health  like 
another  in  the  last  stage  of  a  consumption,  or  that  the  rash  and 
irascible  may  resemble  the  cold  and  phlegmatic.     It  revolts 


OF   THE   TR\JTH    OF    PHYSIOGNOMY  137 

to  hear  it  affirmed  that  joy  and  grief,  pleasure  and  pain,  love 
and  hatred,  all  exhibit  themselves  under  the  same  traits ;  that 
is  to  say,  under  no  traits  whatever,  on  the  exterior  of  man. 
Yet  such  are  the  assertions  of  those  who  maintain  physiog- 
nomy to  be  a  chimerical  science.  They  overturn  all  that  order 
and  combination  by  which  eternal  wisdom  so  highly  astonishes 
and  delights  the  understanding.  It  cannot  be  too  emphatic- 
ally repeated  that  blind  chance  and  arbitrary  disorder  consti- 
tute the  philosophy  of  fools;  and  that  they  are  the  bane  of 
natural  knowledge,  philosophy  and  religion.  Entirely  to  ban- 
ish such  a  system  is  the  duty  of  the  true  inquirer,  the  sage,  and 
the  divine. 

All  men  (this  is  indisputable),  absolutely  all  men,  estimate  all 
things  whatever  by  their  physiognomy,  their  exterior,  tempo- 
rary superficies.  By  viewing  these  on  every  occasion,  they 
draw  their  conclusions  concerning  their  internal  properties. 

What  merchant,  if  he  be  unacquainted  with  the  person  of 
whom  he  purchases,  does  not  estimate  his  wares  by  the  physi- 
ognomy or  appearance  of  those  wares?  If  he  purchase  of  a 
distant  correspondent,  what  other  means  does  he  use  in  judg- 
ing whether  they  are  or  are  not  equal  to  his  expectation  ?  Is 
not  his  judgment  determined  by  the  color,  the  fineness,  the 
superficies,  the  exterior,  the  physiognomy?  Does  he  not 
judge  money  by  its  physiognomy?  Why  does  he  take  one 
guinea  and  reject  another?  Why  weigh  a  third  in  his  hand? 
Does  he  not  determine  according  to  its  color,  or  impression ; 
its  outside,  its  physiognomy?  If  a  stranger  enter  his  shop,  as 
a  buyer  or  seller,  will  he  not  observe  him  ?  Will  he  not  draw 
conclusions  from  his  countenance?  Will  he  not,  almost  be- 
fore he  is  out  of  hearing,  pronounce  some  opinion  upon  him, 
and  say :  "  This  man  has  an  honest  look,"  "  That  man  has  a 
pleasing,  or  forbidding,  countenance  ?  "  What  is  it  to  the 
purpose  whether  his  judgment  be  right  or  wrong  ?  He  judges. 
Though  not  wholly,  he  depends  in  part  upon  the  exterior  form, 
and  thence  draws  inferences  concerning  the  mind. 

How  does  the  farmer,  walking  through  his  grounds,  regu- 
late his  future  expectations  by  the  color,  the  size,  the  growth, 
the  exterior ;  that  is  to  say,  by  the  physiognomy  of  the  bloom, 
the  stalk,  or  the  ear,  of  his  corn  ;  the  stem,  and  shoots  of  his 

vine-tree  ?     "  This  ear  of  corn  is  blighted,"  "  That  wood  is  full 

G — \  ol.  60 


138  LAVATER 

of  sap ;  this  will  grow,  that  not,"  affirms  he,  at  the  first  or  sec- 
ond glance.  "  Though  these  vine-shoots  look  well,  they  will 
bear  but  few  grapes."  And  wherefore?  He  remarks,  in  their 
appearance,  as  the  physiognomist  in  the  countenances  of  shal- 
low men,  the  want  of  native  energy.  Does  not  he  judge  by 
the  exterior? 

Does  not  the  physician  pay  more  attention  to  the  physiog- 
nomy of  the  sick  than  to  all  the  accounts  that  are  brought  him 
concerning  his  patient?  Zimmermann,  among  the  living, 
may  be  brought  as  a  proof  of  the  great  perfection  at  which  this 
kind  of  judgment  has  arrived ;  and  among  the  dead,  Kempf, 
whose  son  has  written  a  treatise  on  temperament. 

The  painter Yet  of  him  I  will  say  nothing ;  his  art  too 

evidently  reproves  the  childish  and  arrogant  prejudices  of 
those  who  pretend  to  disbelieve  physiognomy. 

The  traveller,  the  philanthropist,  the  misanthrope,  the  lover 
(and  who  not?),  all  act  according  to  their  feelings  and  deci- 
sions, true  or  false,  confused  or  clear,  concerning  physiog- 
nomy. These  feelings,  these  decisions,  excite  compassion, 
disgust,  joy,  love,  hatred,  suspicion,  confidence,  reserve,  or 
benevolence. 

Do  we  not  daily  judge  of  the  sky  by  its  physiognomy?  No 
food,  not  a  glass  of  wine  or  beer,  not  a  cup  of  coffee  or  tea, 
comes  to  table,  which  is  not  judged  by  its  physiognomy,  its 
exterior,  and  of  which  we  do  not  thence  deduce  some  conclu- 
sion respecting  its  interior,  good  or  bad  properties. 

Is  not  all  nature  physiognomy,  superficies  and  contents  ^ 
body,  and  spirit ;  exterior  effect  and  internal  power ;  invisible 
beginning  and  visible  ending? 

What  knowledge  is  there,  of  which  man  is  capable,  that  is 
not  founded  on  the  exterior;  the  relation  that  exists  between 
visible  and  invisible,  the  perceptible  and  the  imperceptible  ? 

Physiognomy,  whether  understood  in  its  most  extensive  or 
confined  signification,  is  the  origin  of  all  human  decisions,  ef- 
forts, actions,  expectations,  fears,  and  hopes ;  of  all  pleasing 
and  unplcasing  sensations,  which  arc  occasioned  by  external 
objects. 

From  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  in  all  conditions  and  ages, 
throughout  all  nations,  from  Adam  to  the  last  existing  man, 
from  the  worm  we  tread  on  to  the  most  sublime  of  philoso- 


OF   THE   TRUTH    OF    PHYSIOGNOMY  139 

phers  (and  why  not  to  the  angel,  why  not  to  the  Mediator 
Christ  ?),  physiognomy  is  the  origin  of  all  we  do  and  suffer. 

Each  insect  is  acquainted  with  its  friend  and  its  foe ;  each 
child  loves  and  fears,  although  it  knows  not  why.  Physiog- 
nomy is  the  cause ;  nor  is  there  a  man  to  be  found  on  earth  who 
is  not  daily  influenced  by  physiognomy ;  not  a  man  who  cannot 
figure  to  himself  a  countenance  which  shall  to  him  appear  ex- 
ceedingly lovely,  or  exceedingly  hateful ;  not  a  man  who  does 
not  more  or  less,  the  first  time  he  is  in  company  with  a  stranger, 
observe,  estimate,  compare,  and  judge  him,  according  to  ap- 
pearances, although  he  might  never  have  heard  of  the  word 
or  thing  called  physiognomy ;  not  a  man  who  does  not  judge 
of  all  things  that  pass  through  his  hands,  by  their  physiog- 
nomy ;  that  is,  of  their  internal  worth  by  their  external  appear- 
ance. 

The  art  of  dissimulation  itself,  which  is  adduced  as  so  in- 
superable an  objection  to  the  truth  of  physiognomy,  is  founded 
on  physiognomy.  Why  does  the  hypocrite  assume  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  honest  man,  but  because  that  he  is  convinced, 
though  not  perhaps  from  any  systematic  reflection,  that  all 
eyes  are  acquainted  with  the  characteristic  marks  of  honesty. 

What  judge,  wise  or  unwise,  whether  he  confess  or  deny  the 
fact,  does  not  sometimes  in  this  sense  decide  from  appear- 
ances? Who  can,  is,  or  ought  to  be,  absolutely  indiflferent  to 
the  exterior  of  persons  brought  before  him  to  be  judged? 
What  king  would  choose  a  minister  without  examining  his  ex- 
terior, secretly  at  least,  and  to  a  certain  extent?  An  officer 
will  not  enHst  a  soldier  without  thus  examining  his  appearance, 
his  height  out  of  the  question.  What  master  or  mistress  of  a 
family  will  choose  a  servant  without  considering  the  exterior; 
no  matter  whether  their  judgment  be  or  be  not  just,  or  whether 
it  be  exercised  unconsciously? 

I  am  wearied  of  citing  instances  so  numerous,  and  so  con- 
tinually before  our  eyes,  to  prove  that  men,  tacitly  and  unani- 
mously, confess  the  influence  which  physiognomy  has  over 
their  sensations  and  actions.  I  feel  disgust  at  being  obliged 
to  write  thus,  in  order  to  convince  the  learned  of  truths  with 
which  every  child  is  or  may  be  acquainted. 

He  that  hath  eyes  to  see,  let  him  see ;  but  should  the  light, 
by  being  brought  too  close  to  his  eyes,  produce  frenzy,  he  may 


140  LAVATER 

burn  himself  by  endeavoring  to  extinguish  the  torch  of  truth. 
I  use  such  expressions  unwiUingly,  but  I  dare  do  my  duty,  and 
my  duty  is  boldly  to  declare  that  I  believe  myself  certain  of 
what  I  now  and  hereafter  shall  affirm ;  and  that  I  think  myself 
capable  of  convincing  all  real  lovers  of  truth,  by  principles 
which  are  in  themselves  incontrovertible.  It  is  also  necessary 
to  confute  the  pretensions  of  certain  literary  despots,  and  to 
compel  them  to  be  more  cautious  in  their  decisions.  It  is 
therefore  proved,  not  because  I  say  it,  but  because  it  is  an  eter- 
nal and  manifest  truth,  and  would  have  been  equally  truth, 
had  it  never  been  said,  that,  whether  they  are  or  are  not  sen- 
sible of  it,  all  men  are  daily  influenced  by  physiognomy ;  that, 
as  Sultzer  has  affirmed,  every  man,  consciously  or  incon- 
sciously,  understands  something  of  physiognomy ;  nay,  that 
there  is  not  a  living  being  that  does  not,  at  least  after  its  man- 
ner, draw  some  inferences  from  the  external  to  the  internal ; 
that  does  not  judge  concerning  that  which  is  not,  by  that 
which  is,  apparent  to  the  senses. 

This  universal,  though  tacit  confession,  that  the  exterior, 
the  visible,  the  superficies  of  objects,  indicates  their  nature, 
their  properties,  and  that  every  outward  sign  is  the  symbol  of 
some  inherent  quality,  I  hold  to  be  equally  certain  and  im- 
portant to  the  science  of  physiognomy. 

I  must  once  more  repeat,  when  each  apple,  each  apricot,  has 
a  physiognomy  peculiar  to  itself,  shall  man,  the  lord  of  earth, 
have  none  ?  The  most  simple  and  inanimate  object  has  its 
characteristic  exterior,  by  which  it  is  not  only  distinguished 
as  a  species,  but  individually ;  and  shall  the  first,  noblest,  best 
harmonized,  and  most  beauteous  of  things  be  denied  all  char- 
acteristic. 

But  whatever  may  be  objected  against  the  truth  and  cer- 
tainty of  the  science  of  physiognomy,  by  the  most  illiterate, 
or  the  most  learned  ;  how  much  soever  he  who  openly  professes 
faith  in  this  science,  may  be  subject  to  ridicule,  to  philosophic 
pity  and  contempt ;  it  still  cannot  be  contested  that  there  is 
no  object,  thus  considered,  more  important,  more  worthy  of 
observation,  more  interesting  than  man,  nor  any  occupation 
superior  to  that  of  disclosing  the  beauties  and  perfections  of 
human  nature. 

Such  were  my  opinions  six  or  eight  years  ago.     Will  it  in 


OF   THE   TRUTH    OF    PHYSIOGNOMY  141 

the  next  century  be  believed  that  it  is  still,  at  this  time,  neces- 
sary to  repeat  these  things ;  or  that  numerous  obscure  witlings 
continue  to  treat  with  ridicule  and  contempt  the  general  feel- 
ings of  mankind,  and  observations  which  not  only  may  be, 
but  are  demonstrated ;  and  that  they  act  thus  without  having 
refuted  any  one  of  the  principles  at  which  they  laugh ;  yet  that 
they  are,  notwithstanding,  continually  repeating  the  words, 
philosophy  and  enlightened  age? 


TITHON     AND     AURORA 


BY 


JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER 


JOHANN   GOTTFRIED   VON    HERDER 

1/44— 1803 

Few  men  have  risen  to  greatness  in  spite  of  such  formidable  ob- 
stacles as  confronted  Johann  Gottfried  von  Herder  in  his  early  career. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  poor  schoolmaster,  born  in  1744  at  Mohrungen, 
in  East  Prussia,  in  the  dominions  of  Frederick  the  Great,  arid  was 
educated  at  the  University  of  Konigsberg,  where  he  subsisted  literally 
on  charity.  Here  he  came  in  contact  with  Kant  and  Hamann,  both  of 
whom  influenced  his  mental  development  to  a  marked  degree.  The 
strain  of  his  work  at  the  university  brought  on  an  affection  of  the  eyes 
from  which  he  never  fully  recovered.  It  was  while  undergoing  a 
course  of  treatment  for  this  trouble,  at  Strasburg  in  1769,  that  he  met 
Goethe,  and  a  friendship  sprang  up  between  the  two  young  men  that 
was  bound  to  exert  a  great  influence  on  the  minds  and  lives  of  both. 
Having  achieved  considerable  success  in  the  ministry,  his  chosen  call- 
ing, Herder  was  invited,  in  1775,  to  Weimar  as  Court  preacher.  He 
accepted,  and  the  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent  in  that  famous  cen- 
tre of  literary  activity  where  Wieland  and  Goethe  had  already  taken 
up  their  abode.  In  1801  Herder  was  appointed  President  of  the  Con- 
sistory, the  highest  clerical  office  in  the  duchy.  He  also  received  a 
patent  of  nobility  from  the  Elector  of  Bavaria.  He  enjoyed  these 
honors  only  a  short  time,  for  two  years  later  he  died,  in  1803,  at  the 
age  of  fifty-nine. 

In  1778  Herder  published  his  "  Poetry  of  the  Races"  (Dichtung  der 
Volker),  a  careful  selection  of  popular  songs  and  ballads,  taken  from 
nearly  every  language  of  Europe,  and  rendered  into  his  own  tongue 
with  poetic  sympathy  and  remarkable  accuracy.  In  1782  appeared 
"  The  Spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry,"  and  from  1784  to  1791  his  greatest 
work,  "  Ideas  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Race."  He  wrote  a 
metrical  romance  of  great  power,  entitled  "  The  Cid."  Herder  is  also 
the  author  of  numerous  essays  and  works  on  theology,  philosophy, 
and  criticism,  of  which  "  Tithon  and  Aurora  "  has  been  selected  as  an 
example. 

Herder's  success  as  a  translator  has  already  been  referred  to.  In 
poems  of  his  own  composition  his  style  does  not  show  to  equal  ad- 
vantage, and  in  his  prose  works  his  style  is  decidedly  inferior  in  point 
of  clearness  to  that  of  his  two  great  contemporaries,  Wieland  and 
Goethe.  But  while  his  writing  lacks  occasionally  careful  attention  to 
detail  and  form,  it  often  carries  with  it  a  peculiar  eloquence  and  pro- 
found suggestiveness  of  thought  that  give  it  deservedly  a  high  place  in 
German  literature.  The  genius  of  Herder  was  the  source  of  great  in- 
spiration to  his  contemporaries,  for  the  views  on  art,  on  history,  and  life 
in  general  that  he  disseminated  were  broader  than  the  current  views 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  On  Goethe  and  Richtcr  especially  his  in- 
fluence was  far  reaching  and  happy  in  its  results.  The  monument 
erected  to  Herder  by  his  fellow-philosophers  and  poets  at  Weimar 
bears  these  three  words.  "  Light,  Love,  Life,"  an  inscription  that  ex- 
presses most  admirably  the  characteristic  aspirations  of  his  soul. 


144 


TITHON   AND   AURORA 

ALTHOUGH,  in  general,  no  epitaph  or  panegyric  uses  to 
notice  how  long  a  man  has  outlived  himself,  yet  is  this 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  not  infrequent  phe- 
nomena in  the  history  of  human  lives.  The  earlier  the  play  of 
the  faculties  and  passions  begins,  the  more  impetuously  it  is 
continued,  and  assailed  in  various  ways  by  external  accident, 
the  oftener  shall  one  discover  cases  of  that  early  exhaustion  of 
the  soul — of  the  warrior  laid  prostrate  without  death  or  wound 
— of  a  manly,  and,  often  even,  of  a  youthful  extreme  age.  A 
man  may  go  about  for  a  long  while,  with  a  living  body,  like  the 
image  of  his  own  funeral  monument ;  his  spirit  gone  from  him 
— a  shadow  and  a  memory  of  his  former  name.  Many  causes 
may  contribute  to  this  early  death:  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart,  too  great  activity  and  too  sluggish  patience,  relaxation 
as  well  as  over-tension,  too  rapid  prosperity  and  too  protracted 
adversity.  For  it  is  a  general  truth,  that  health,  cheerfulness, 
pleasure,  and  virtue  are  ever  the  medium  between  two  extremes. 
Either  on  the  precipitous  or  the  shallow  shore  of  the  stream 
the  vessel  may  be  wrecked.  In  the  middle,  it  is  easy  and  pleas- 
ant sailing.  Many  a  one  has  grown  old  because  he  wanted  the 
true  interior  source  of  activity.  He  was  a  brook  that  contracts 
its  waters  into  itself  and  soon  dries  up  and  shows  its  melan- 
choly bed.  This  one  endeavored  to  make  seeming  supply  the 
place  of  being.  The  darkness  passed  away,  and  the  glow- 
worms in  the  hair  glittered  as  sparkling  diamonds  no  longer. 
That  one  would  accomplish  by  toil  and  memory,  what  intelli- 
gence and  genius  alone  can  perform.  The  overloaded  memory 
gave  way,  excessive  labor  tired,  and  the  want  of  the  essential 
was  at  last  painfully  apparent.  Another,  while  a  youth,  over- 
strained his  nobler  powers ;  he  piled  up  mountains  of  imagina- 
tion to  the  skies,  and  soon,  without  the  lightning  of  Jupiter, 
found  under  them  his  grave.    Still  another,  whose  learning  and 

145 


146  HERDER 

effort  had  no  object  but  his  own  ease,  abandoned  learning  and 
effort  as  soon  as  he  had  obtained  that  ease,  and  buried  himself 
in  a  blessed  decay.  Here,  one,  without  desert,  has  had  his  brain 
turned  by  an  unexpected  prosperity,  a  too  rapidly  acquired 
fame,  an  unlooked  for  success  in  action.  He  has  no  longer  any 
thought  beyond  this  success.  His  seductive  goddess.  Fortune, 
has  crowned  him  at  once  with  laurel,  with  poplar,  and  with 
poppy.  He  falls  asleep  or  babbles  nonsense  in  her  enervating 
lap.  There,  one  of  great  merit  has  suffered  too  long  with  unde- 
served misfortune,  until  his  shoulders  are  bowed,  his  breast  con- 
tracted, his  arm  paralyzed,  and  he  can  no  longer  stand  erect 
and  recruit  himself.  A  thunderbolt  from  heaven  has  stricken 
the  oak  even  to  its  root  and  deprived  it  of  the  power  of  life. 
To  this  one — a  man  of  manifold  capacity — there  was  wanting 
a  capacious  breast  to  despise  envy  and  to  wait  for  better  times. 
He  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  into  conflict  with  it,  and  the 
flying  eagle  was  unworthily  vanquished  by  the  viper  that  held 
him  in  her  folds.  That  one — a  man  of  honest  industry — was 
wanting  in  intelligence.  His  more  cunning  enemies  soon  made 
him  powerless  and  wretched.  And  thus  it  befell  ten  other 
characters,  in  other  situations.  Hard  by  the  theatre  of  civil 
life  there  is  generally  a  hospital,  and  in  that  the  greater  part  of 
the  actors  gradually  lose  themselves. 

Two  things  especially  contribute  to  this  result,  and  they,  too, 
are  extremes.  In  the  first  place,  the  arbitrariness  of  the  ruling 
great;  and,  secondly,  a  too  refined  delicacy  and  carefulness. 
As  to  the  former,  it  is  a  well-known  and  favorite  saying,  that 
nothing  is  so  troublesome  as  gratitude,  nothing  so  insupport- 
able as  continued  respect  and  the  daily  spectacle  of  acknowl- 
edged merit.  Accordingly,  new  favor  purchases  for  itself  new 
gratitude ;  and  creatures  whom  the  great  purposely  attract  to 
themselves — in  whom  they  even  pretend  to  find  gifts  and  merits 
which  the  gods  never  gave  them — have,  for  them,  a  peculiar 
charm,  as  their  own  creation.  The  sap  is  withdrawn  from  the 
old  trees  that  the  young  world  may  bloom  and  thrive.  Whoso, 
in  such  cases,  is  not  greater  than  he  on  whom  he  depends,  dies 
inwardly  with  self-consuming  vexation.  The  majestic  voice 
of  Philip  IT,  "  Vo  cl  Rcy,"  has  slain  many  a  one  of  this  descrip- 
tion. Opposed  to  this  murder  of  human  merits  and  powers, 
there  is  another,  which  may  be  termed  the  most  refined  species 


TITHON   AND   AURORA  147 

of  self-murder.  It  is  the  more  to  be  lamented  because  it  occurs 
only  in  the  case  of  the  most  elect  of  men ;  suddenly  or  gradually 
breaking  in  pieces  their  costly  mechanism.  Men  of  extreme 
delicacy  of  feeling  have  a  "  Highest "  after  which  they  strive 
— an  idea  to  which  they  attach  themselves  with  unspeakable 
longing — an  ideal  perfection  which  they  pursue  with  irresistible 
impulse.  When  deprived  of  this  idea,  when  this  fair  image  is 
destroyed  before  their  eyes,  the  heart  of  their  flower  is  broken, 
and  feeble,  withered  leaves  alone  remain.  Perhaps  more  of  the 
dead  of  this  description  go  about  in  society,  than  one  might  at 
first  suppose,  because  they,  of  all  men,  most  carefully  conceal 
their  grief,  and  hide  even  from  their  friend  the  slow  poison  of 
their  death — that  sad  secret  of  the  heart.  Shakespeare,  who 
depicted  all  conditions  of  the  soul,  has  delineated,  also,  this 
epoch  of  the  sinking  or  confusion  of  the  faculties,  in  various 
situations  and  characters,  with  great  truth  and  exactness.  One 
— perhaps  the  crown  of  lamentations  over  such  a  state — may 
serve  as  an  example  of  all. 

"  O!  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown! 
The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword, 
The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  State, 
The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form. 
The  observed  of  all  observers!  quite,  quite  down! 

Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 

Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh; 
That  unmatched  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth, 
Blasted  with  ecstasy." 

Not  only  individual  persons  outlive  themselves,  but  rauch 
oftener  and  longer,  those  politico-moral  persons,  so  called — 
institutions,  forms  of  polity,  classes,  corporations.  Often  their 
body  remains  for  centuries,  as  a  show,  when  the  soul  of  that 
body  has  long  since  fled  ;  or  they  creep  about  as  shadows  among 
living  forms.  To  be  convinced  of  this,  let  anyone  enter  a  Jewish 
synagogue,  or  read  Anquetil's  "  Zend-Avesta,"  and  the  sacred 
books  of  the  Brahmins.  There  is  no  doubt  that  all  these  re- 
ligious institutions  were  once  very  useful,  and  that  in  every  one 
of  these  hulls  lay  the  germs  of  a  great  development.  Time  has 
developed  each  of  them  more  or  less — one  happily,  so  that  we 
are  disposed  perhaps  to  look  for  more  in  it  than  was  there ;  an- 
other imperfectly  and  feeble;  as  in  the  great  course  of  Nature 


148  HERDER 

it  will  fall  out.  Nevertheless,  everything  has  its  goal,  and  the 
Rabbi,  the  Destur,  the  Mobed — perhaps  also  the  Brahmin — 
has,  in  the  great  whole,  outlived  himself.  In  some  regions  of 
Mahommedanism  something  similar  is  already  reported  of  the 
Koran,  although  that  is  the  youngest  of  bibles.  And  in  Chris- 
tendom, true  as  its  pure  fountain  streams,  with  the  water  of 
eternal  life,  how  many  a  vessel  is  already  broken  that  was 
thought  to  have  exhausted  this  fountain !  How  many  a  form 
which  still  stands  there,  had  long  ago  outlived  itself !  Look  at 
the  Romish  mass !  Listen  to  many  of  their  litanies  and  prayers  f 
Into  what  times  do  they  take  us  back !  What  a  strange  savor 
of  long-perished  ages!  As,  in  religion,  the  priestly  order,  so 
in  other  institutions  the  orders  connected  with  them  follow 
each  its  living  or  its  dead.  Consider  so  many  institutions  and 
orders  of  the  Middle  Ages !  Where  they  could  not  follow  the 
Genius  of  opinion  and  renew  their  youth  with  him,  they  either 
remained  stationary  on  the  shore  or  else  the  stream  bore  them 
lifeless  on,  until  they  found  somewhere  their  place  of  rest. 
Even  in  Cervantes'  days  the  Duke  of  Be  jar  would  not  allow  that 
"  Don  Quixote  "  should  be  dedicated  to  him,  so  long  as  he  sup- 
posed it  to  be  a  serious  book  of  knight-errantry;  because  the 
taste  for  such  things  had  already  begun  to  be  ridiculous.  He 
accepted  the  dedication  gladly  when,  as  the  book  was  read  to 
him,  he  discovered  its  true  character.  Time  has  enacted  novels 
of  this  kind  with  several  institutions.  The  princes  and  heroes 
of  Corneille  are  for  the  most  part  insupportable  to  us,  and  we 
wonder  how  other  times  could  ever  put  together,  believe,  and 
admire  such  nonsense.  Shakespeare's  court-scenes  seem  to  us 
like  capital  and  state  acts.  The  knights  of  our  day  are  no 
longer  of  the  ancient  order;  and  that  kingly  word  of  Louis 
XIV.  "  L'Etatf  c'est  moi!"  will  ever  remain  the  appropriate 
epitaph  of  that  great  world-monarch. 

"  Whatsoever  had  a  birth  must  die,"  says  the  Brahmin ;  and 
that,  which  seeks  to  defer  its  downfall  by  artificial  methods,  in 
resorting  to  such  methods,  has  already  outlived  itself.  In  the 
early  spring,  the  foliage  and  grass  of  the  former  year  arc  often 
still  visible ;  much  of  it  has  retained  its  place ;  but,  in  a  short 
time,  the  whole  is  vanished,  and  a  new  raiment  covers  the  trees 
and  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

If  there  is  anything  in  the  circle  of  humanity  which  ought 


TITHON    AND    AURORA  149 

not  to  outlive  itself,  it  is  science  and  art.  The  nature  of  these 
is  eternal,  and  they  are  capable  of  the  purest  truth  and  of  infi- 
nite extension.  And  indeed  the  real  essence  of  art  and  science 
never  dies,  never  changes.  But  their  forms  are  all  the  more 
perishable,  as  they  appear,  above  all  things,  to  depend  on  their 
masters  and  discoverers — to  originate,  to  flourish,  and  to  perish 
with  them.  So  long  as  the  discoverer  lives,  so  long  as  the  mas- 
ter teaches  and  directs,  men  draw  living  thoughts  from  his 
living  fountain.  In  the  second  and  third  generation  one  already 
wanders  through  schools  that  echo  and  ape  him.  The  image  of 
the  master  stands  there  dead.  His  science  and  his  art  has  out- 
lived itself,  not  in  his  own,  but  in  his  successors'  works. 

Travels  give  us  a  long  catalogue  of  things  which  have  thus 
outlived  themselves — travels  in  the  history,  as  well  as  in  the 
actual  inspection  or  regions,  countries,  institutions,  persons, 
classes.  Who  that  enters  an  ancient  castle,  and  old-fashioned 
knightly  hall,  an  archive  of  old  diplomas  and  treaties,  of  old 
arms  and  decorations,  old  court-houses,  churches,  convents, 
palaces,  and  imperial  cities,  does  not  feel  himself  translated  into 
a  perished  century?  In  a  tour  through  Germany,  one  often 
finds,  within  a  circle  of  a  few  miles,  the  ancient,  the  middle,  the 
modern,  and  most  modern  ages  together.  Here,  we  breathe 
still  the  air  of  the  twelfth  century ;  there,  we  hear  the  melodies 
of  the  sixteenth,  the  tenth,  the  fourth.  All  at  once,  you  enter 
cabinets  which  have  been  instituted  under  the  luxurious  ducal 
government — galleries  collected  under  Louis  XIV,  and  end 
with  institutions  which  seem  to  have  been  devised  for  the 
twentieth  century.  Instructive  as  this  chaos  may  be  for 
the  traveller,  it  would  be  very  confusing  and  oppressive  for  the 
resident,  did  not  human  nature  accustom  itself  to  all  things. 
*'  Lord,  by  this  time  he  stinketh,  for  he  hath  been  dead  four 
days,"  said  the  sorrowing  sister ;  one  might  say,  with  regard 
to  many  institutions,  four  centuries,  and  still  they  are  not  offen- 
sive to  their  brothers  and  sisters.  These  are  accustomed  to  the 
odor,  and  find  it  nourishing. 

Italy  seems  to  me  the  most  instructive  theatre  of  these  life- 
epochs  and  world-ages.  There,  you  can  be  with  Egyptians, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Etruscans,  nay,  if  you  please,  with  Chinese, 
with  Hindoos,  and  with  the  people  of  Madagascar !  In  Rome, 
alone,  you  may  follow  paganism  from  Romulus  to  Diocletian, 


I50  HERDER 

and  Christianity  from  Constantine  to  Pius.  There,  and  in  the 
Italian  provinces,  you  may  live  at  pleasure  in  the  fifteenth, 
the  sixteenth,  or  the  eighteenth  century.  And  if  you  investigate 
the  monuments  of  nature,  you  will  come  upon  self-survivals 
which  will  take  you  beyond  the  bounds  of  history.  It  requires  a 
capacious  mind  to  embrace,  to  distinguish,  to  classify  all  these 
scenes.  But,  to  such  a  mind,  they  exhibit  a  compend  of  all  his- 
tory, which  floods  us,  at  last,  with,  I  know  not,  what  pleasing 
but  dissolving  melancholy. 

"  The  cloud-capped  towers,  etc.,  etc. 

We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Enough  of  sleep  and  of  dying  out !  Let  us  now  speak  of 
waking  and  rejuvenescence!  How  is  this  brought  about?  By 
revolution  ? 

I  confess  that,  among  the  misused  words  of  our  modern, 
fashionable  vocabulary,  few  are  so  displeasing  to  me  as  this ; 
because  it  has  entirely  departed  from  its  original,  pure  significa- 
tion, and  carries  with  it  the  most  mischievous  confusion  of 
thought.  In  astronomy,  we  call  revolution  a  movement  of  the 
great  world-bodies  which  returns  into  itself — determined  by 
measure,  number,  and  forces ;  a  movement,  which  is  not  only 
the  most  peaceful  order  in  itself,  but,  in  connection  with  other 
harmonious  powers,  establishes  the  kingdom  of  eternal  order. 
Thus  the  earth  revolves  around  itself  and  makes  day  and  night, 
and  by  means  of  these,  arranges  and  regulates  the  sleep  and  the 
waking  of  its  creatures,  their  time  for  rest  and  the  circle  of  their 
occupations.  Thus  the  earth  moves  around  the  sun  and  makes 
the  year,  and  by  means  of  that,  the  seasons,  and  by  means  of 
them,  the  changes  of  labor  and  of  mortal  enjoyment.  The  revo- 
lution of  the  moon  around  our  earth  gives  to  the  sea  its  ebb  and 
flood,  determines  the  periods  of  diseases,  and  perhaps,  of  the 
growth  of  plants.  In  tliis  sense  it  is  useful  to  notice  revolu- 
tions ;  for,  in  them,  we  observe  a  course  of  affairs  which  returns 
into  itself,  and,  in  that  course  of  things,  the  laws  of  a  perpetual 
order.  In  such  a  course  there  is  nothing  abrupt,  arbitrary, 
without  reason.  There  is  nothing  of  destruction  in  it,  but  a 
gently  vibrating  thread  of  conservation.     Revolutions  of  this 


TITHON   AND   AURORA  151 

kind  are  the  dance  of  the  Hours  around  the  throne  of  Jupiter. 
They  are  the  chaplet  of  victory  on  the  immortal  head  of  the 
god,  after  the  conquest  of  chaos. 

Also,  if  we  draw  down  this  idea  of  revolution  from  heaven 
to  earth,  it  can  be  no  other  than  the  idea  of  a  silent  progress 
of  things,  of  a  reappearance  of  certain  phenomena,  according 
to  their  peculiar  nature,  consequently,  of  the  design  of  an  ever- 
working  Wisdom,  Order,  and  Goodness.  In  this  sense,  we 
speak  of  the  revolutions  of  arts  and  sciences,  that  is,  a  periodical 
return  of  them,  the  causes  of  which  we  endeavor  to  investigate 
in  history,  and,  as  it  were,  to  calculate  astronomically.  Thus 
the  Pythagoreans  spoke  of  the  revolutions  of  the  human  soul, 
that  is,  of  its  periodical  return  into  other  forms.  Thus  have 
men  investigated  the  laws  of  the  revolution  of  human  thoughts ; 
when  they  return  from  oblivion  into  remembrance;  when 
visions  and  desires,  when  activities  and  passions  which  had 
gone  to  sleep,  reappear  once  more.  In  all  these  things,  it  has 
been  attempted  to  discover  the  laws  of  a  hidden,  silent  order 
of  nature. 

But  the  meaning  of  this  word  has  undergone  a  detestable 
change,  because,  in  the  barbarous  centuries,  men  knew  of  no 
other  revolutions  than  conquests,  overturns,  oppressions,  confu- 
sions without  motive,  aim,  or  order.  Then  it  was  called  revolu- 
tion, when  the  nethermost  was  made  uppermost — when,  by  the 
so-called  right  of  war,  a  nation  lost  more  or  less  of  its  property, 
its  laws,  its  goods ;  or  when,  by  the  right  of  monarchy,  all  those 
so-called  rights  were  enforced,  which  St.  Thomas,  Machiavel, 
and  Naude  afterwards  collected  from  actual  events  and  brought 
together  in  one  chapter.  Then,  finally,  it  was  called  a  revolu- 
tion, when  the  ministers  did  what  the  rulers  themselves  would 
not  do;  or  when,  here  and  there,  the  people  undertook  that 
which  they  could  rarely  execute  so  well  as  kings  or  ministers. 
Hence  the  numerous  "  Histoires  des  Revolutions  " — a  kind  of 
book  whose  title  is  all  the  more  popular,  that  its  contents  are,  for 
the  most  part,  unintelligible  or  abominable.  The  notion  of  an 
aim  or  object  was  almost  lost  sight  of.  History  became  an  ex- 
hibition of  entanglements  without  a  denouement.  For,  after 
the  conclusion  of  each  revolution,  socalled,  the  confusion,  in 
the  kingdoms  where  they  occurred,  was  greater  than  before. 
Revolutions  of  this  sort,  whencesoever  they  may  derive  their 


15a  HERDER 

origin,  are  signs  of  barbarism,  of  an  insolent  force,  of  a  mad 
wilfulness.  The  more  reason  and  moderation  increase  among 
men,  the  rarer  they  will  become,  until,  at  last,  they  entirely  dis- 
appear. Then  the  word  revolution  will  revert  to  its  pure  and 
true  meaning.  Then  it  will  mean,  in  history  also  as  elsewhere, 
a  course  of  things  arranged  according  to  laws — a  course  of 
events  which  peacefully  returns  into  itself.  In  this  view  alone 
is  history  worth  the  study;  for,  as  to  the  revolutions  of  wild 
elephants,  when  they  tear  up  trees  and  devastate  villages — from 
these  there  is  not  much  to  be  learned. 

Not  to  mislead,  therefore,  with  this  abused  word,  and  not 
to  make  destructive  violence  a  medicine  for  mortal  ills,  we  will 
keep  the  path  of  healing  Nature.  Not  revolutions,  but  evolu- 
tions are  the  silent  process  of  the  great  mother,  wherewith  she 
awakens  slumbering  powers,  brings  germs  to  maturity,  gives 
renewed  youth  to  premature  age,  and  new  life  to  seeming  death. 
Let  us  see  what  this  remedy  comprehends,  and  how  it  heals. 

If  we  suppose  Nature  to  have  an  aim  on  the  earth,  that  aim 
can  be  no  other  than  the  development  of  her  powers  in  all 
forms,  kinds,  and  ways.  These  evolutions  proceed  slowly,  often 
imperceptibly ;  and,  for  the  most  part,  they  appear  periodically. 
After  a  night  of  sleep  follows  a  morning  of  awakening.  Under 
the  shade  of  the  former  Nature  had  re-collected  her  powers, 
in  order  to  meet  the  latter  with  spirit.  In  the  ages  of  man,  child- 
hood continues  long;  body  and  mind  advance  with  a  slow 
growth,  until,  with  collected  energies,  the  flower  of  youth 
breaks  forth,  and  the  fruit  of  later  years  comes  gradually  to 
maturity.  Very  improperly  have  these  periods  of  development 
been  called  revolutions.  There  is  nothing  here  that  revolves, 
but  faculties  are  evolved,  developed.  Ever,  the  more  recondite 
and  deeper-lying  come  forth  to  view,  which,  without  many  a 
preceding  one,  could  not  have  been  brought  into  action.  There- 
fore Nature  made  periods.  She  gave  the  creature  time  to  re- 
cover itself  from  one  exertion  gone  through  with,  in  order  to 
begin,  with  joy,  and  to  accomplish  another  and  more  difficult. 
For  when  the  plant  puts  forth  a  flower,  or  when  the  fruit  is 
forming  in  it,  unquestionably  more  inward  and  finer  forces  are 
put  in  action  than  when  the  sap  was  entering  the  stem,  and  the 
lowest  leaves  were  brought  forlh.  In  the  ordinary  course  of 
things  Nature  does  not  leave  her  work  until  all  its  physical 


TITHON    AND   AURORA  153 

powers  have  been  brought  into  action;  the  innermost,  as  it 
were,  turned  outward,  and  the  development,  which,  at  every 
step,  is  assisted  by  a  kindly  cpigcnesis,  has  become  as  perfect  as 
it  could  become,  under  the  given  conditions. 

Men  are  accustomed  to  regard  each  individual  object,  and 
especially  each  living  individual  as  an  isolated  whole;  but  a 
nearer  view  shows  it  to  be  connected  with  soil,  climate,  weather, 
with  the  periodical  breath  of  all  Nature ;  and  that,  according 
to  these,  it  lasts  for  a  longer  or  shorter  time,  grows  early  old  or 
easily  renews  its  youth.  Man,  a  rational,  moral,  and  political 
creation,  lives,  by  means  of  these  capacities  and  powers,  in  a 
peculiar  and  infinitely  extended  element.  His  reason  is  con- 
nected with  the  reason  of  others,  his  moral  culture  with  the 
conduct  of  others,  his  capacity  to  constitute  himself  a  free 
being — both  in  himself  and  in  connection  with  others — is  so 
intimately  connected  with  the  way  of  thinking,  the  reasonable- 
ness, the  active  enterprise  of  many,  that  out  of  this  element, 
he  must  needs  be  like  a  fish  on  dry  land,  or  a  bird  in  a  space 
destitute  of  air.  His  best  powers  die  out,  his  capacity  remains  a 
dead  capability ;  and  all  effort,  out  of  time  and  place,  and  with- 
out the  cooperation  of  the  elements,  is  like  a  flower  in  the 
midst  of  winter.  It  is  Nature  that  makes  seasons ;  it  is  she  that 
furthers  capacities.  She  furthers  them  also  in  humankind. 
Individual  men,  classes,  corporations,  whole  societies,  and  na- 
tions, can  only  advance  with  this  stream,  they  have  done  all  if 
they  steer  wisely  upon  it.  Let  no  one  think  that,  if  all  the 
regents  of  the  earth  from  the  proudest  negro  king  to  the  mighti- 
est khan  of  the  Tartars  should  combine  to  make  to-day  yester- 
day and  to  hinder  forever  the  progressive  development  of  the 
human  race,  whether  it  lead  to  youth  or  to  old  age  they  could 
ever  accomplish  their  aim.  This  can  never  be  an  aim  with  \vise 
rulers,  simply,  because  there  is  no  sense  in  such  fruitless  en- 
deavor. 

A  wise  ruler  then  will  always  regard  himself  as  the  house- 
holder, not  as  the  antagonist  of  Nature.  He  will  improve  every 
circumstance  w-hich  she  offers,  to  the  best  issues.  Here  leaves 
are  falling,  there  a  whole  autumn  of  leaves  lie  already  in  their 
shrouds.  He  will  not  attempt  to  restore  them  again  to  their 
former  places  on  limb  and  twig.  Can  he  give  them  back  their 
former  freshness  and  sap  which  made  them  a  living  whole  with 


154  HERDER 

the  tree  on  which  they  hung?  And  if  he  cannot  do  this,  how 
then?  Will  he  crown  himself  with  a  withered  wreath  of  dried 
leaves,  because  they  were  other  once  than  they  are  now  ?  What 
Nature  could  not  keep,  will  the  gardener  keep  it  ?  and  that  too, 
not  in  conformity  with  the  ends  of  Nature,  but  in  direct  opposi- 
tion to  them?  Infinitely  more  beautiful  the  task  to  follow 
Nature,  to  mark  her  times,  to  awaken  powers  wherever  they 
slumber,  to  promote  thought,  activity,  invention,  joy,  and  love, 
in  whatsoever  field  of  useful  employment.  Necessity  comes  at 
last  and  compels  with  iron  sceptre.  He  who  obeys  reason  and 
measure  will  prevent  necessity.  Often,  he  will  need  only  to 
beckon  with  the  lily-staff  of  Oberon,  and  here  new  flowers  will 
spring  instead  of  the  withered  ones,  and  there,  if  the  blossom- 
time  is  past,  nourishing  fruits  will  come  to  maturity.  He  will 
come  to  the  aid  of  the  young  shoot  and  take  it  under  his  protec- 
tion against  oppressive  weeds.  The  old  wild  tree  he  will  not 
cut  down  but  graft  more  genial  fruits  upon  it,  and  the  reju- 
venized  tree  will  wonder,  itself,  at  its  nobler  existence.  A  slight 
anticipation  of  this  kind,  by  which  one  nation  had  got  the  start 
of  another,  has  often  secured  to  it,  for  centuries,  unattainable 
advantages.  England  acquired  the  position  which  she  now 
occupies,  by  a  somewhat  earlier  adoption  and  application  of 
certain  points  of  constitutional  finance  and  commerce,  which 
had  long  before  germinated  in  other  countries,  but  which  folly 
and  passion  had  suppressed.  After  many  violent  revolutions 
which  passed  over  her,  like  bloody  thunder-showers,  it  was 
given  to  the  most  peaceful  and  silent  revolution,  to  awaken  a 
new  activity,  and  thereby  to  establish,  for  centuries,  the  pros- 
perity of  a  living  constitution.  If  in  the  time  of  William  III, 
she  had  attempted  to  renew  the  feudal,  military,  and  forest 
laws  of  William  the  Conqueror,  where  would  she  be  now  ? 

All  orders  and  arrangements  of  society  are  the  children  of 
Time.  This  ancient  mother  produced,  nourished,  educated 
them ;  she  adorned  and  fitted  them  out ;  and  after  a  longer  or 
shorter  term  of  life,  she  buries  them  as  she  buries  and  renews 
herself.  Whoever  therefore  confounds  his  own  being  with  the 
duration  of  an  order  or  institution,  gives  himself  unnecessary 
torment.  That  which  was  before  thee,  will  be  behind  thee  too, 
if  it  is  to  be.  For  thine  own  part,  act  undcrstandingly  and 
wisely;  time  will  proceed  in  its  great  course  and  accomplish  its 


TITHON   AND   AURORA  155 

own.  Be  in  thine  own  person  more  than  thine  order ;  and  then, 
however  that  may  grow  old,  thou  wilt  be,  for  thyself  and  for 
others,  always  young.  Yea,  the  darker  the  night,  the  brighter 
shalt  thou  beam  a  star !  He  who  does  not  raise  himself  above 
the  breastwork  of  his  order,  is  no  hero  within  it.  An  order,  as 
such,  makes  only  puppets.  Personality  makes  worth  and  merit. 
The  more  that  idle,  dead  hull  which  conceals  the  best  as  well  as 
the  poorest  kernel  falls  away,  the  more  the  fair  and  ripe  fruit 
appears.  Assuredly,  therefore,  it  is  no  retrocession,  but  an  evo- 
lution of  the  times,  when  the  order  ceases  to  be  all,  and  men 
demand  to  see,  in  each  order,  persons,  men,  active  beings. 
And  since,  without  a  new  incursion  of  barbarism,  and  with  the 
daily  increasing  necessities  of  Europe,  this  feeling  must  neces- 
sarily increase,  there  remains  only  one  counsel  which  can  se- 
cure each  one  against  the  senescence  of  his  order.  Be  some- 
thing in  your  order,  and  then  you  will  be  the  first  to  perceive, 
to  avoid,  and  to  amend  its  defects.  Its  old  age  will  appear 
rejuvenized  in  you,  precisely  because  there  is  something  in  you 
which  would  grace  every  form  and  live  in  all. 

The  excellent  Paolo  Sarpi  wrote  a  treatise,  the  title  of  which 
attracted  me  exceedingly :  "  How  opinions  are  born  and  die 
in  us."  I  was  very  curious  to  become  acquainted  with  its  con- 
tents. And  although  I  saw  from  Foscarini's  extract  in  Grisel- 
lini  that  it  was  not  likely  to  contain  what  I  had  supposed,  this 
capital  problem  nevertheless  was  often  in  my  thoughts.  Many 
are  the  ways  in  which,  from  earliest  childhood,  we  arrive  at 
opinions  with  which  we  clothe  ourselves,  body  and  soul.  Many 
of  them  cleave  to  us  v/ith  great  tenacity,  and  the  silliest  we  gen- 
erally keep  concealed  behind  our  innermost,  ninth  skin,  where, 
let  no  one  presume  to  touch  them !  Unfortunately,  however. 
Time  will  touch  them,  and  often  with  very  rude  hands.  And 
he  who,  in  order  to  save  his  life,  that  is,  his  reason,  peace,  and 
the  self-consciousness  of  internal  worth,  cannot  yield  the  skin 
and  hair  of  his  opinions  to  the  meddling  Satan,  is  in  bad  hands. 
For  that  which  is  mere  opinion,  or  even  false  opinion,  will  as- 
suredly perish  in  the  fierce  fire  of  purification.  But  is  it  not 
something  better  that  shall  arise  in  its  place  ?  Instead  of  opin- 
ions received  on  authority  or  even,  as  Franklin  relates,  from 
politeness,  knowledge  from  conviction,  reason  approved  by  our 
own  investigation,  and  a  self-acquired  felicity  shall  be  our  por- 


150  HERDER 

tion.  The  old  man  in  us  must  die  that  a  new  youth  may  spring 
up. 

"  But  how  may  this  be !  Can  a  man  return  into  his  mother's 
womb  and  be  bom  again  ?  "  To  this  doubt  of  old  Nicodemus, 
the  only  answer  that  can  be  given  is:  " Palingenesia!" — not 
revolution,  but  a  happy  evolution  of  the  faculties  which  slumber 
in  us,  and  by  means  of  which  we  renew  our  youth.  What  we 
call  outliving  ourselves — that  is,  a  kind  of  death — is,  with  souls 
of  the  better  sort  but  sleep,  which  precedes  a  new  waking,  a 
relaxation  of  the  bow  which  prepares  it  for  new  use.  So  rests 
the  fallow-field,  in  order  to  produce  the  more  plentifully  here- 
after. So  dies  the  tree  in  winter,  that  it  may  put  forth  and 
blossom  anew  in  the  spring.  Destiny  never  forsakes  the  good, 
as  long  as  he  does  not  forsake  himself,  and  ignobly  despair  of 
himself.  The  Genius  which  seemed  to  have  departed  from  him 
returns  to  him  again,  at  the  right  moment,  bringing  new  activ- 
ity, fortune,  and  joy.  Sometimes  the  Genius  comes  in  the  shape 
of  a  friend,  sometimes  in  that  of  an  unexpected  change  of  times. 
Sacrifice  to  this  Genius  even  though  you  see  him  not !  Hope  in 
back-looking,  returning  Fortune,  even  when  you  deem  her  far 
off !  If  the  left  side  is  sore,  lay  yourself  on  the  right ;  if  the 
storm  has  bent  your  sapling  one  way,  bend  it  the  other  way, 
until  it  attains,  once  more,  the  perpendicular  medium.  You 
have  wearied  your  memory?  Then  exercise  your  understand- 
ing. You  have  striven  too  diligently  after  seeming,  and  it  has 
deceived  you  ?  Now  seek  being.  That  will  not  deceive.  Un- 
merited fame  has  spoiled  you?  Thank  Heaven  that  you  are 
rid  of  it,  and  seek,  in  your  own  worth,  a  fame  which  cannot  be 
taken  away.  Nothing  is  nobler  and  more  venerable  than  a  man, 
who,  in  spite  of  fate,  perseveres  in  his  duty,  and  who,  if  he  is 
not  happy  outwardly,  at  least  deserves  to  be  so.  He  will  cer- 
tainly become  so,  at  the  right  season.  The  serpent  of  time  often 
casts  her  slough,  and  brings  to  the  man  in  his  cave,  if  not  the 
fabled  jewel  on  her  head  and  the  rose  in  her  mouth,  at  least 
medicinal  herbs  which  procure  him  oblivion  of  the  past,  and 
restoration  to  new  life. 

Philosophy  abounds  in  remedies  designed  to  console  us  for 
misfortunes  endured,  but  unquestionably  its  best  remedy  is 
when  it  strengthens  us  to  1)car  new  misfortunes,  and  imparts  to 
us  a  firm  reliance  on  ourselves.     The  illusion  which  weakens 


TITHON   AND   AURORA  157 

the  faculties  of  the  soul,  comes,  for  the  most  part,  from  without. 
But  the  objects  which  environ  us  are  not  ourselves.  It  is  sad 
indeed,  when  the  situation  in  which  a  man  is  placed  is  so  embit- 
tered and  made  so  wretched,  that  he  has  no  desire  to  touch  one  of 
its  grapes  or  flowers,  because  they  crumble  to  ashes  in  his  hands, 
like  those  fruits  of  Sodom.  Nevertheless,  the  situation  is  not 
himself ;  let  him,  like  the  tortoise,  draw  in  his  limbs  and  be  what 
he  can  and  ought.  The  more  he  disregards  the  consequences  of 
his  actions,  the  more  repose  he  has  in  action.  Thereby  the  soul 
grows  stronger  and  revivifies  itself,  like  an  ever-springing 
fountain.  The  fountain  does  not  stop  to  calculate  through 
what  regions  of  the  earth  its  stream  shall  flow,  what  foreign 
matter  it  shall  take  in,  and  where  it  shall  finally  lose  itself.  It 
flows  from  its  own  fulness,  with  an  irrepressible  motion.  That 
which  others  show  us  of  ourselves  is  only  appearance.  It  has 
always  some  foundation,  and  is  never  to  be  wholly  despised ; 
but  it  is  only  the  reflection  of  our  being  in  them,  mirrored  back 
to  us  from  their  own  ;  often  a  broken  and  dim  form,  and  not  our 
being  itself.  Let  the  little  insects  creep  over  and  around  you, 
and  be  at  the  uttermost  pains  to  make  you  appear  dead ;  they 
work  in  their  nature.  Work  you  in  yours,  and  live !  In  fact, 
our  breast,  our  character,  keeps  us  always  more  and  longer  up- 
right, than  all  the  acumen  of  the  head,  than  all  the  cunning  of 
the  mind.  In  the  heart  we  live,  and  not  in  the  thoughts.  The 
opinions  of  others  may  be  a  favorable  or  unfavorable  wind  in 
our  sails.  As  the  ocean  its  vessels,  so  circumstances  at  one 
time  may  hold  us  fast,  at  another  may  powerfully  further  us; 
but  ship  and  sail,  compass,  helm,  and  oar,  are  still  our  own. 
Never,  then,  like  old  Tithonus,  grow  gray  in  the  conceit  that 
your  youth  has  passed  away.  Rather,  with  newly  awakened 
activity,  let  a  new  Aurora  daily  spring  from  your  arms. 

I  ought  now  to  speak  to  the  greater  problem,  so  peculiarly 
adapted  to  our  times :  Whether  nations,  countries,  states,  must 
also  decline  with  old  age,  or  whether  they,  too,  are  capable  of  a 
new  youth  ?  And  by  what  means  that  youth  may  be  renewed  ? 
On  this  question  there  is  great  division  of  opinion,  and,  as  each 
opinion  knows  how  to  fortify  itself  with  examples  from  history, 
this  very  difference  in  the  answers  is  itself  a  proof  of  the  in- 
definiteness  of  the  question.  What  is  it  that  can  grow  old  in  a 
nation,  a  country,  a  state  ?     What,  in  them,  can  or  ought  to  be 


158  HERDER 

made  young  again ?  Is  it  the  soul,  the  air,  the  sky?  And  how 
are  these  changed  for  the  better  or  worse?  Is  it  the  farms, 
meadows,  forests,  salt-springs,  mines,  trees  ?  Or  is  it  the  man- 
ner of  working  them,  the  profit  and  the  application  of  their 
products?  Is  it  these  alone,  or  is  it  man  himself,  his  race,  his 
manners,  his  education  and  mode  of  living,  his  principles  and 
opinions,  his  relations  and  conditions?  And  how  shall  these  be 
changed?  By  speeches  and  writings,  or  by  institutions  and 
well-directed,  consistent,  continued  action?  And  what  object 
shall  this  change  accomplish?  Superfluity  for  the  few,  com- 
fort and  idleness  for  the  many,  or  the  happiness  of  all?  And 
wherein  consists  the  happiness  of  all?  In  arts  and  sciences? 
In  seeming  or  in  being?  In  loquacious  enlightenment  or  in 
genuine  culture  ?  All  these,  and  perhaps  other  questions,  should 
be  considered  with  careful  reference  to  place,  time  and  cir- 
cumstances, and  a  comparison  with  more  ancient  examples 
and  their  consequences.  And  then,  it  would  probably  be 
found : 

1.  That  land  and  people  never  grow  old,  or  only  at  a  very 
late  period ;  but  that  States,  as  human  institutions,  as  children 
of  the  times,  or  even,  in  many  cases,  as  the  mere  growth  of  ac- 
cident, have  their  age  and  their  youth,  and,  consequently,  an 
ever-progressive,  imperceptible  movement  toward  growth,  to- 
ward blossoming,  or  toward  dissolution. 

2.  That  man,  often  individual  men,  may  retard  or  promote 
these  periods,  nay,  that  they  are  mostly  promoted  by  opposite 
measures. 

3.  That  when  forces  are  at  work,  either  for  bloom  or  for 
dissolution,  their  progress  is  rapid,  and  everything  appears  to 
assimilate  itself  with  them,  until  trivial  circumstances — often 
again,  individual  men — give  the  stream  a  different  direction; 
which  new  direction,  again,  is  the  result  of  a  living  presence, 
although  it  sometimes  appears  to  be  the  effect  of  chance. 

4.  That,  finally,  in  order  to  forestall  those  fearful  explosions 
which  are  called  political  revolutions,  and  which  ought  to  be 
entirely  foreign  from  the  book  of  human  affairs,  the  State  has 
no  other  remedy,  but  to  preserve  or  to  restore  the  natural  re- 
lation, the  healthy  action  of  all  its  parts,  the  brisk  circulation  of 
its  juices,  and  must  not  contend  against  the  nature  of  things. 
Sooner  or  later  the  strongest  machine  must  succumb  in  that 


TITHON   AND   AURORA  159 

contest;  but  Nature  never  grows  old.  She  only  renews  her 
youth  periodically,  in  all  her  living  forces. 

The  timid  nature  of  man,  always  compassed  about  with  hope 
and  fear,  often  prophesies  distant  evils  as  near,  and  calls  that 
death,  which  is  only  a  wholesome  slumber,  a  necessary,  health- 
bringing  relaxation.  And  so  it  generally  deceives  itself  in  its 
predictions  concerning  lands  and  kingdoms.  Powers  lie  dor- 
mant which  we  do  not  perceive.  Faculties  and  circumstances 
are  developing  themselves,  on  which  we  could  not  calculate. 
But  even  when  our  judgment  is  true,  it  usually  leans  too  much 
to  one  side.  "  If  this  is  to  live,"  we  say,  "  that  must  die."  We 
do  not  consider  whether  it  may  not  be  possible  that  both  shall 
live  and  act  favorably  on  each  other  ? 

The  good  Bishop  Berkeley,  who  was  no  poet,  was  inspired, 
by  his  beneficent  zeal  for  America,  to  write  the  following : 

"Westward  the  star  of  empire  takes  its  way; 
The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
The  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day, 
Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last."  ' 

So  prophesied  the  good-natured  bishop,  and  if  his  spirit 
could  now  glance  at  yonder  upstriving  America,  he  would  per- 
haps discover,  with  that  same  glance,  that,  in  the  arms  of  the 
old  Tithon,  Europe,  also,  a  new  Aurora  was  slumbering.  Not 
four,  scarcely  three  acts  in  the  great  drama  of  this,  still  youth- 
ful, quarter  of  the  globe,  are  past ;  and  who  shall  say  how  many 
times  yet  the  old  Tithon  of  the  human  race  may  and  will  renew 
his  youth  upon  our  earth ! 

*  The  original  gives  the  entire  poem  of  which  the  above  is  the  concluding  stanza« 
together  with  a  German  version  of  it. 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 


BY 


JOHANN    WOLFGANG    VON    GOETHE 


H— Vol.  GO 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG   VON   GOETHE 
1749— 1832 

"  Of  great  men,  among  so  many  millions  of  noted  men,"  says  Car- 
lyle,  "it  is  computed  that  in  our  time  there  have  been  two;  one  in 
the  practical,  another  in  the  speculative,  province:  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte and  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe — Goethe  intrinsically  of  much 
more  unquestionable  merit."  The  man  of  whom  this  high  estimate 
•was  written  was  born  at  Frankfort-on-the-Main  on  August  28,  1749. 
His  father  was  a  man  of  wealth,  culture,  and  high  social  position,  and 
his  mother,  to  whom  he  owed  much,  was  a  woman  of  fine  intellect, 
rare  tact  and  wisdom  in  all  that  pertained  to  the  early  education  of 
her  remarkable  son.  After  two  or  three  years  spent  in  studying  law  at 
the  University  of  Leipsic,  where  he  led  a  life  rather  unfettered  by 
conventionalities,  young  Goethe  was  sent  to  Strasburg,  where  he  met 
Herder.  In  1773  his  first  important  work  was  published,  the  tragedy 
of  "  Goetz  von  Berlichingen."  Its  popularity  was  immediate  and 
universal.  Soon  afterwards  he  met  the  young  prince,  Karl  August  of 
Weimar,  and  a  friendship  was  formed  that  continued  without  inter- 
ruption for  fifty-five  years.  Many  of  his  finest  lyrics  belong  to  this 
period.  In  1774  he  published  his  famous  novel,  "  The  Sorrows  of 
Werther."  The  following  year  his  friend,  Prince  Karl,  became  Grand 
Duke  of  Weimar,  and  at  once  summoned  Goethe  to  his  Court,  where  he 
became  the  intimate  companion  of  the  Duke,  was  elevated  to  the  dignity 
of  Privy  Councillor  in  1779,  and  knighted  in  1782.  He  was  made 
Minister  of  Finance  of  the  little  duchy  in  the  latter  year,  and  in  1815 
he  became  its  Prime  Minister.  The  name  of  Weimar  is  indelibly  linked 
with  Goethe's  life  and  work.  After  the  death  of  his  patron,  in  1828, 
Goethe,  then  nearly  eighty  years  of  age,  lived  in  retirement,  but  still 
engaged  and  interested  in  literary  pursuits  so  far  as  his  faculties  would 
permit.  He  died  in  Weimar  in  March,  1832,  at  the  ripe  age  of  eighty- 
three. 

In  1786  Goethe  set  out  on  a  journey  to  Italy,  the  country  he  had 
long  desired  to  visit.  Of  his  two  years'  stay,  his  impressions  and  ex- 
periences, as  well  as  of  the  journey,  we  have  an  account  from  his  own 
pen.  On  his  return,  he  wrote  in  rapid  succession  the  dramas  "  Eg- 
mont,"  "  Iphigenia,"  "  Tasso,"  and  numerous  fine  poems,  chiefly 
lyrical.  He  devoted  also  much  attention  to  science  and  art.  In  1794 
a  friendship  sprang  up  between  Goethe  and  Schiller  that  profoundly 
influenced  the  work  of  both,  and  lasted  uninterruptedly  till  Schiller's 
death  in  1805.  In  1796  Goethe  completed  "  Wilhclm  Mcister,"  a  work 
he  had  begun  in  1777,  and  the  following  year  he  published  "  Hermann 
and  Dorothea."  At  this  time  also  appeared  many  of  his  finest  ballads. 
The  first  part  of  "  Faust,"  his  greatest  work  and  one  of  the  grandest 
compositions  in  literature,  appeared  in  1808.  His  literary  activity  con- 
tinued to  the  very  close  of  his  long  life.  The  second  part  of  "  Faust," 
in  the  completion  of  which  he  labored  assiduously  during  the  declining 
years  of  his  life,  appeared  only  after  his  death. 

Goethe's  style  is  characteristic  of  the  man,  marvellously  clear  and 
simple,  free  from  all  mannerism  and  eccentricities,  yet  profoundly  im- 
pressive, suggestive,  and  individual.  A  characteristic  example  of  his 
prose  is  given  in  his  essay  on  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  It  is  as  a 
poet,  however,  that  he  achieved  his  greatest  triumphs  and  his  endur- 
ing fame  "  In  Goethe,"  says  Bayard  Taylor,  "  we  find  a  long,  rich, 
and  wholly  fortimate  life,  almost  unparalleled  in  its  results.  In  him 
there  is  no  unfilled  promise,  no  frap;nientary  destiny:  he  stands  as 
complete  and  symmetrical  and  satisfactory  as  the  Parthenon." 


THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD 

HERDER  paid  us  a  visit,  and  together  \vith  his  great 
learning,  he  brought  with  him  many  other  aids,  and 
the  later  publications  besides.     Among  these  he  an- 
nounced to  us  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  as  an  excellent  work, 
with  the  German  translation  of  which  he  wished  to  make  us 
acquainted  by  reading  it  aloud  to  us  himself. 

His  method  of  reading  was  quite  peculiar;  one  who  has 
heard  him  preach  will  easily  form  an  idea  of  it  for  himself. 
He  delivered  everything,  and  this  romance  as  well  as  the  rest, 
in  a  serious  and  simple  style,  perfectly  removed  from  all  imita- 
tive-dramatic representation,  and  avoiding  even  that  variety 
which  is  not  only  permitted,  but  even  required,  in  an  epical 
delivery;  I  mean  that  slight  change  of  voice  which  sets  in 
relief  what  is  spoken  by  the  different  characters,  and  by  means 
of  which  the  interlocutors  are  distinguished  from  the  narrator. 
Without  being  montonous,  Herder  let  everything  follow 
along  in  the  same  tone,  just  as  if  nothing  of  it  was  present  be- 
fore him,  but  all  was  only  historical ;  as  if  the  shadows  of  this 
poetic  creation  did  not  affect  him  in  a  life-like  manner,  but 
only  glided  gently  by.  Yet  this  manner  of  delivery  had  an 
infinite  charm  in  his  mouth :  for,  as  he  felt  it  all  most  deeply, 
and  knew  how  to  estimate  the  variety  of  such  a  work  so  its 
whole  merit  appeared  in  perfect  purity,  and  the  more  clearly, 
as  you  were  not  disturbed  by  passages  sharply  spoken  out,  nor 
interrupted  in  the  feeling  which  the  whole  was  meant  to 
produce. 

A  Protestant  country  clergyman  is,  perhaps,  the  most  beau- 
tiful subject  for  a  modern  idyl ;  he  appears,  like  Melchizedek, 
as  priest  and  king  in  one  person.  In  the  most  innocent  situa- 
tion which  can  be  imagined  in  the  world,  that  of  a  husl)and- 
man,  he  is,  for  the  most  part,  united  to  his  people  by  similar 

163 


164  GOETHE 

occupations,  as  well  as  by  similar  family  relationships;  he  is 
)  a  father,  a  master  of  a  family,  an  agriculturist,  and  thus  a  per- 
fect member  of  the  community.  On  this  pure,  beautiful, 
earthly  foundation,  reposes  his  higher  calUng;  to  him  is  it 
given  to  guide  men  through  life,  to  take  care  for  their  spiritual 
education,  to  bless  them  at  all  the  leading  epochs  of  their  ex- 
istence, to  instruct,  to  strengthen,  to  console  them,  and,  if 
present  consolation  is  not  sufficient,  he  calls  up  before  them 
the  hope  and  firm  assurance  of  a  happier  future.  Imagine  to 
yourself  such  a  man,  with  feelings  of  pure  humanity,  strong 
enough  not  to  deviate  from  them  under  any  circumstances,  and 
by  this  already  elevated  above  the  many,  of  whom  one  can  ex- 
pect neither  purity  nor  firmness ;  give  him  the  learning  neces- 
sary for  his  ofiice,  as  well  as  a  cheerful,  equable  activity  which 
is  even  passionate,  for  he  neglects  no  moment  for  doing  good 
— and  you  will  have  him  well  endowed.  But  at  the  same  time 
add  the  necessary  limitedness,  so  that  he  must  not  only  labor 
on  in  a  small  circle,  but  may  also,  perchance,  pass  over  to  a 
smaller;  grant  him  good-nature,  placability,  resolution,  and 
everything  else  praiseworthy  that  springs  from  so  decided  a 
character,  and  over  all  this  a  serene  condescension  and  a  smil- 
ing forbearance  towards  his  own  failings  and  those  of  others : 
so  will  you  have  put  together  pretty  well  the  image  of  our  ex- 
cellent Wakefield. 

The  delineation  of  this  character  on  his  course  of  life  through 
joys  and  sorrows,  and  the  ever  increasing  interest  of  the  plot, 
by  the  combination  of  what  is  quite  natural  with  the  strange 
and  the  wonderful,  make  this  romance  one  of  the  best  which 
has  ever  been  written ;  besides  this,  it  has  the  great  superiority 
of  being  quite  moral,  nay,  in  a  pure  sense,  Christian,  for  it 
represents  the  reward  of  good  intentions  and  perseverance  in 
the  right,  it  strengthens  an  unconditional  confidence  in  God, 
and  asserts  the  final  triumph  of  good  over  evil,  and  all  this 
without  a  trace  of  cant  or  pedantry.  The  author  was  pre- 
served from  both  of  these  by  an  elevation  of  mind  that  shows 
itself  throughout  in  the  form  of  irony,  by  reason  of  which  this 
little  work  must  appear  to  us  as  wise  as  it  is  amiable.  The 
author,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  has  without  question  great  insight  into 
the  moral  world,  into  its  strcnt^fth  and  its  infirmities;  l)ut  at 
the  same  time  he  may  thankfully  acknowledge  that  he  is  an 


THE   VICAR   OF    WAKEFIELD  165 

Englishman/  and  reckon  highly  the  advantages  which  his 
country  and  his  nation  afforded  him.  The  family,  with  whose 
delineation  he  has  here  busied  himself,  stands  upon  one  of  the 
lowest  steps  of  citizen-comfort,  and  yet  comes  in  contact  with 
the  highest ;  its  narrow  circle,  which  becomes  still  more  con- 
tracted, extends  its  influence  into  the  great  world  through  the 
natural  and  common  course  of  things ;  this  little  skiff  floats 
full  on  the  agitated  waves  of  English  life,  and  in  weal  or  woe 
it  has  to  expect  injury  or  help  from  the  vast  fleet  which  sails 
around  it. 

I  may  suppose  that  my  readers  know  this  work  and  remem- 
ber it ;  whoever  hears  it  named  for  the  first  time  here,  as  well 
as  he  who  is  induced  to  read  it  again,  will  thank  me.  For  the 
former  I  would  merely  remark,  en  passant,  that  the  vicar's  wife 
is  of  that  busy,  good  sort,  who  allows  herself  and  family  to 
want  for  nothing,  but  who  is  also  somewhat  vain  of  herself 
and  family.  There  are  two  daughters  ;  Olivia,  handsome  and 
more  devoted  to  the  exterior ;  and  Sophia,  charming  and  more 
given  to  her  inner  self;  nor  will  I  omit  mentioning  an  indus- 
trious son,  Moses,  who  is  somewhat  astringent  and  emulous 
of  his  father. 

If  Herder  could  be  accused  of  any  fault  in  his  reading  aloud, 
it  was  impatience ;  he  did  not  wait  until  the  hearer  had  heard 
and  comprehended  a  certain  part  of  the  details,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  feel  and  think  correctly  about  them ;  he  would  hurry 
on  immediately  to  see  their  effect,  and  yet  he  was  displeased 
with  this  too  when  it  manifested  itself  in  us.  He  blamed  the 
excess  of  feeling  which  overflowed  from  me  at  every  step  in 
the  story.  I  felt  like  a  man,  like  a  young  man ;  everything 
was  living,  true,  and  present  before  me.  He,  considering  only 
the  artistic  keeping  and  form,  saw  clearly,  indeed,  that  I  was 
overpowered  by  the  subject-matter,  and  this  he  was  unwilling 
to  allow.  Peglow's  reflections,  besides,  which  were  not  of  the 
most  refined  character,  were  still  worse  received ;  but  he  was 
especially  angry  at  our  want  of  keenness  in  not  seeing  before- 
hand the  contrasts  which  the  author  often  makes  use  of,  and  in 
suffering  ourselves  to  be  moved  and  carried  away  by  them 
without  remarking  the  oft-returning  art.    Nor  would  he  par- 

'  Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  but  Goethe  presumably  meant  to  refer 
to  him  as  a  British  author. 


l66  GOETHE 

don  us  for  not  having  seen  at  once,  or  at  least  suspected  from 
the  first,  where  Burchell  is  on  the  point  of  discovering  himself 
by  passing  over  in  his  narration  from  the  third  to  the  first 
person,  that  he  himself  was  the  lord  whom  he  was  talking 
about;  and  when,  finally  we  rejoiced  Hke  children  at  the 
denouement,  and  the  transformation  of  the  poor,  needy  wan- 
derer into  a  rich,  powerful  lord,  he  immediately  recalled  the 
passage,  which,  according  to  the  author's  plan,  we  had  over- 
looked, and  then  he  read  us  a  powerful  lecture  on  our  stupidity. 
It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  he  regarded  the  work  merely  as 
a  production  of  art,  and  required  the  same  of  us  who  were  yet 
wandering  in  that  state  where  it  is  very  allowable  to  let  works 
of  art  affect  us  just  as  if  they  were  productions  of  nature. 

I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  be  at  all  confused  by  Herder's  in- 
vectives; for  young  people  have  the  happiness  or  unhappi- 
ness,  that,  when  anything  has  produced  an  effect  on  them,  this 
effect  must  be  wrought  out  within  themselves;  from  which 
much  good,  as  well  as  much  mischief  arises.  The  above  work 
had  produced  a  great  impression  upon  me,  for  which  I  could 
not  account.  Properly  speaking,  I  felt  myself  in  unison  with 
that  ironical  tone  of  mind  which  elevates  itself  above  every 
object,  above  fortune  and  misfortune,  good  and  evil,  death 
and  life,  and  thus  attains  to  the  possession  of  a  truly  poetical 
world.  In  fact,  though  I  could  not  become  conscious  of  this 
until  later,  it  was  enough  that  it  gave  me  much  to  do  at  the 
moment ;  but  I  could  by  no  means  have  expected  to  see  my- 
self so  soon  transposed  from  this  fictitious  world  into  an  actual 
one  so  similar. 

My  fellow-boarder,  Weyland,  who  enlivened  his  quiet,  la- 
borious life  by  visiting  his  friends  and  relations  in  the  country 
(for  he  was  a  native  of  Alsace),  did  me  many  services  on  my 
little  excursions,  by  introducing  me  to  different  localities  and 
individuals,  sometimes  in  person,  sometimes  by  his  recommen- 
dations. He  had  often  spoken  to  me  about  a  country  clergy- 
man who  lived  near  Drusenheim,  six  leagues  from  Strasburg, 
in  possession  of  a  good  benefice,  with  an  intelligent  wife  and 
a  pair  of  lovely  daughters.  The  hospitality  and  agreeableness 
of  this  family  were  always  highly  extolled.  It  scarcely  needed 
all  this  to  draw  thither  a  young  rider  who  had  already  ac- 
customed himself  to  spend  all  his  leisure  days  and  hours  on 


THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD  167 

horseback  and  in  the  open  air.  We  decided  upon  this  trip, 
too,  on  which  my  friend  had  to  promise  that,  on  introducing 
me,  he  would  say  neither  good  nor  ill  of  me,  but  would  treat 
me  with  general  indifference,  and  would  also  allow  me  to  make 
my  appearance  clad,  if  not  meanly,  yet  somewhat  poorly  and 
slovenly.  He  consented  to  this,  and  promised  himself  some 
sport  from  it. 

It  is  a  pardonable  whim  in  men  of  consequence  to  place 
their  exterior  advantages  in  concealment  now  and  then,  so  as 
to  give  the  fairer  play  to  the  intrinsic  w^orth  of  their  inner 
man.  For  this  reason  the  incognito  of  princes,  and  the  ad- 
ventures resulting  therefrom,  are  always  highly  pleasing ;  they 
appear  like  masked  divinities,  who  can  nobly  reckon  at  double 
their  value  all  the  good  offices  shown  to  them  as  individuals, 
and  are  able  either  to  make  light  of  the  disagreeable  or  to 
avoid  it.  That  Jupiter  should  be  well  pleased  in  his  incognito 
with  Philemon  and  Baucis,  and  Henry  IV  with  his  peasants 
after  a  hunting  party,  is  quite  conformable  to  nature,  and  we 
like  it  well ;  but  that  a  young  man,  of  no  importance  or  name, 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  derive  any  pleasure  from  an  in- 
cognito might  be  construed  by  many  as  an  unpardonable  ar- 
rogance. Yet  since  the  question  here  is  not  whether  such 
opinions  and  deeds  are  praiseworthy  or  blameable,  but  how 
they  may  have  shown  themselves  and  been  put  into  execution, 
we  will  pardon  the  youngster  his  self-conceit,  for  this  time, 
for  the  sake  of  our  own  amusement ;  and  the  more  so  as  I 
must  here  affirm,  in  my  excuse,  that  from  youth  up,  a  love  for 
masquerade  had  been  excited  in  me  even  by  my  stern  father 
himself. 

This  time  too,  partly  with  my  own  cast-ofif  clothes,  partly 
with  some  borrowed  garments  and  by  the  manner  of  comb- 
ing my  hair,  I  had,  if  not  disfigured  myself,  yet  at  least  botched 
up  my  accoutrements  so  outlandishly  that  my  friend  could  not 
fielp  laughing  along  the  way,  especially  since  I  knew  how  to 
take  off  to  the  life  the  bearing  and  gesture  of  the  Latin  riders 
(as  such-looking  figures  are  called)  when  they  sit  on  horse- 
back. The  fine  road,  the  most  splendid  weather,  and  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Rhine,  put  us  in  the  best  humor.  We 
stopped  a  moment  in  Drusenheim,  he  to  make  himself  spruce, 
and  I  to  rehearse  the  part  I  was  to  play,  for  I  was  afraid  of 


l68  GOETHE 

speaking  now  and  then  out  of  character.  The  country  here 
has  the  characteristics  of  all  the  open,  level  parts  of  Alsace. 
We  rode  by  a  pleasant  foot-path  over  the  meadows,  soon 
reached  Sesenheim,  left  our  horses  at  the  tavern,  and  walked 
leisurely  towards  the  parsonage.  "  Do  not  be  put  out,"  said 
W^eyland,  showing  me  the  house  from  a  distance,  "  that  it 
looks  like  an  old  and  miserable  farm-house ;  it  is  so  much  the 
younger  inside."  We  stepped  into  the  court-yard;  the  whole 
pleased  me  well:  for  it  was  just  what  is  called  picturesque, 
and  what  had  so  magically  interested  me  in  the  Dutch  school 
of  art.  The  eiifect  which  time  produces  on  all  the  works  of 
man  was  strongly  perceptible.  House,  barn,  and  stable  were 
just  at  that  point  of  dilapidation  where,  in  doubtful  hesitation 
betwixt  repairing  and  rebuilding,  men  often  neglect  the  one 
without  being  able  to  accomplish  the  other. 

As  in  the  village,  so  in  the  court-yard  of  the  parsonage, 
everything  was  quiet  and  deserted.  We  found  the  father  quite 
alone,  a  little  man,  wrapped  up  within  himself,  but  friendly 
notwithstanding;  the  family  were  then  in  the  field.  He  bade 
us  welcome,  and  offered  us  some  refreshment,  which  we  de- 
clined. My  friend  hurried  away  to  look  after  the  ladies,  and 
I  remained  alone  with  our  host.  "  Perhaps,"  said  he,  "  you 
are  surprised  to  find  me  so  miserably  quartered  in  a  wealthy 
village,  and  with  a  lucrative  benefice ;  but,"  continued  he,  "  it 
proceeds  from  irresolution.  Long  since  it  has  been  promised 
me  by  the  parish,  and  even  by  those  in  higher  places,  that  the 
house  should  be  rebuilt ;  many  plans  have  been  already  drawn, 
examined,  and  altered,  none  of  them  altogether  rejected,  and 
none  carried  into  execution.  This  has  lasted  so  many  years, 
that  I  scarcely  know  how  to  command  my  impatience."  I  an- 
swered him  whatever  I  thought  likely  to  cherish  his  hopes, 
and  encourage  him  to  take  up  the  affair  more  vigorously. 
Thereupon  he  proceeded  to  describe  familiarly  the  personages 
on  whom  such  matters  depend,  and  although  he  was  no  great 
hand  at  the  delineation  of  character,  yet  I  could  easily  com- 
prehend how  the  whole  business  must  have  been  delayed.  The 
confidentialness  of  the  man  was  something  peculiar ;  he  talked 
to  me  as  if  he  had  known  me  for  ten  years,  though  there  was 
nothing  in  his  look  from  which  I  could  have  suspected  that  he 
was  directing  any  particular  scrutiny  to  my  character.    At  last 


THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD  169 

my  friend  came  in  with  the  mother.  She  seemed  to  look  at 
me  with  altogether  different  eyes.  Her  countenance  was  reg- 
ular, and  its  expression  intelligent ;  she  must  have  been  hand- 
some in  her  youth.  Her  figure  was  tall  and  spare,  but  not 
more  so  than  became  her  years,  and  when  seen  from  behind 
she  had  yet  quite  a  youthful  and  pleasing  appearance.  The 
elder  daughter  then  came  bouncing  in  briskly ;  she  inquired 
after  Frederica,  just  as  both  the  others  had  also  done.  The 
father  assured  them  that  he  had  not  seen  her  since  all  three 
had  gone  out  together.  The  daughter  again  went  out  to  the 
door  to  look  for  her  sister ;  the  mother  brought  us  some  refresh- 
ment, and  Weyland  continued  the  conversation  with  the  old 
couple,  which  referred  to  nothing  but  known  persons  and  cir- 
cumstances; for  it  is  usually  the  case,  when  acquaintances 
meet  after  some  length  of  time,  that  they  make  inquiries  about 
the  members  of  a  large  circle,  and  mutually  give  each  other 
information.  I  listened,  and  now  learned  how  much  I  had  to 
promise  myself  from  this  circle. 

The  elder  daughter  came  hastily  back  into  the  room,  anx- 
ious at  not  having  found  her  sister.  They  felt  uneasy  about 
her,  and  scolded  at  this  or  that  bad  habit ;  only  the  father 
said,  very  composedly :  "  Always  let  her  alone ;  she  is  back 
again  already !  "  At  this  instant,  in  fact,  she  entered  the  door ; 
and  then  truly  a  most  charming  star  arose  in  this  terrestrial 
heaven.  Both  daughters  still  wore  nothing  but  German,  as 
they  used  to  call  it,  and  this  almost  obsolete  national  costume 
became  Frederica  particularly  well.  A  short,  white,  full  skirt, 
with  a  furbelow,  not  so  long  but  it  left  the  neatest  little  foot 
visible  up  to  the  ankle ;  a  tight  white  bodice  and  a  black  taf- 
feta apron — there  she  stood,  on  the  boundary  between  country 
beauty  and  city  belle.  Slender  and  airy,  she  tripped  along  as 
if  she  had  nothing  to  carry,  and  her  neck  seemed  almost  too 
delicate  for  the  luxuriant  braids  of  flaxen  hair  on  her  elegant 
little  head.  A  free,  open  glance  beamed  from  her  calm  blue 
eyes,  and  her  pretty  little  turned-up  nose  peered  inquiringly 
into  the  air  with  as  much  unconcern  as  if  there  could  be  noth- 
ing like  care  in  the  world ;  her  straw  hat  dangled  on  her  arm, 
and  thus,  at  the  first  glance,  I  had  the  delight  of  seeing  her 
perfect  grace,  and  acknowledging  her  perfect  loveliness. 

I  now  began  to  act  my  character  subduedly,  half  ashamed 


17©  GOETHE 

to  have  played  a  joke  on  such  good  people,  whom  I  had  leisure 
enough  to  observe :  for  the  girls  continued  the  previous  con- 
versation, and  that  with  feeling  and  humor.  All  the  neighbors 
and  connections  were  again  brought  upon  the  tapis,  and  to 
my  imagination  there  seemed  such  a  swarm  of  uncles  and 
aunts,  relations,  cousins,  comers  and  goers,  gossips  and  guests, 
that  I  thought  myself  lodged  in  the  liveliest  world  possible. 
All  the  members  of  the  family  had  spoken  some  words  with 
me,  the  mother  looked  at  me  every  time  she  came  in  or  went 
out,  but  P'rederica  first  entered  into  conversation  with  me,  and 
as  I  took  up  and  glanced  through  the  music  that  was  lying 
around,  she  asked  me  if  I  played  also?  When  I  told  her 
"  Yes,"  she  requested  me  to  perform  something ;  but  the 
father  would  not  allow  this,  for  he  maintained  that  it  was  be- 
coming in  her  to  serve  her  guest  first,  with  some  piece  of 
music  or  other,  or  a  song. 

She  played  several  things  with  some  execution,  in  the  style 
which  one  usually  hears  in  the  country,  and  on  a  harpsichord, 
too,  that  the  schoolmaster  should  have  tuned  long  since,  if  he 
had  only  had  time.  She  was  now  to  sing  a  song  also,  some- 
thing of  the  tender-melancholy ;  but  she  could  not  succeed 
with  it.  She  rose  up  and  said,  smiling,  or  rather  with  that 
touch  of  serene  joy  which  ever  reposed  on  her  countenance: 
"  If  I  sing  poorly,  I  cannot  lay  the  blame  on  the  harpsichord 
or  the  schoolmaster ;  but  let  us  go  out  of  doors,  then  you  shall 
hear  my  Alsatian  and  Swiss  songs,  they  sound  much  better." 

During  tea,  an  idea  which  had  already  struck  me  before, 
occupied  me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  became  meditative  and 
silent,  although  the  liveliness  of  the  elder  sister,  and  the  grace- 
fulness of  the  younger,  shook  me  often  enough  out  of  my  con- 
templations. My  astonishment  at  finding  myself  so  actually 
in  the  Wakefield  family  was  beyond  all  expression.  The 
father,  indeed,  could  not  be  compared  with  that  excellent  man ; 
but  where  will  you  find  his  like?  On  the  other  hand,  all  the 
worth  which  is  peculiar  to  the  husband  there,  here  appeared  in 
the  wife.  You  could  not  sec  her  without  at  once  reverencing 
and  fearing  her.  In  her  we  saw  the  fruits  of  a  good  education ; 
her  demeanor  was  quiet,  easy,  cheerful,  and  inviting. 

If  the  elder  daughter  had  not  the  celebrated  beauty  of  Olivia, 
yet  she  possessed  a  fine  figure,  was  Uvcly,  and  rather  impel- 


THE   VICAR   OF    WAKEFIELD  171 

uous ;  she  everywhere  showed  herself  active,  and  lent  a  help- 
ing hand  to  her  mother  in  all  things.  It  was  not  hard  to  put 
Frederica  in  the  place  of  Primrose's  Sophia:  for  of  her  there 
is  little  said,  we  take  it  for  granted  that  she  is  lovely ;  and  this 
girl  was  lovely  indeed.  Now  as  the  same  occupation  and  the 
same  general  situation,  wherever  they  can  occur,  produce 
similar,  if  not  the  same  effects,  so  here  too  many  things  were 
talked  about  and  happened  which  had  already  taken  place  in  the 
Wakefield  family.  Dut  when  a  younger  son,  long  spoken  of  and 
impatiently  expected  by  the  father,  at  last  sprang  into  the  room, 
and  boldly  sat  himself  down  by  us,  taking  but  little  notice  of  the 
guests,  I  could  scarcely  help  exclaiming :  "  Moses,  are  you 
here,  too  ?  " 

The  conversation  at  table  extended  my  insight  into  this  coun- 
try and  family  circle,  as  they  chatted  about  various  pleasant 
incidents  which  had  happened  here  and  there.  Frederica,  who 
sat  next  to  me,  took  occasion  from  that  circumstance  to  de- 
scribe to  me  different  localities  which  it  might  be  worth  my 
while  to  visit.  As  one  little  story  always  calls  out  another,  I 
was  able  to  mingle  in  the  conversation  the  better,  and  relate 
similar  incidents,  and  as,  besides  this,  a  good  country  wine  was 
by  no  means  spared,  I  stood  in  danger  of  slipping  out  of  my 
character,  for  which  reason  my  provident  friend  took  advan- 
tage of  the  beautiful  moonlight,  and  proposed  a  walk,  which 
was  immediately  resolved  on.  He  gave  his  arm  to  the  elder, 
I  to  the  younger,  and  thus  we  went  through  the  wide  plains, 
paying  more  attention  to  the  heavens  above  than  to  the  earth 
beneath,  which  lost  itself  in  extension  around  us.  There  was 
nothing  of  moonshine  about  Frederica's  conversation,  how- 
ever ;  by  the  clearness  with  which  she  spoke  she  turned  night 
into  day,  and  there  was  nothing  in  it  which  hinted  at  or  would 
have  excited  feeling,  only  her  expressions  addressed  themselves 
more  than  ever  to  me,  while,  as  I  walked  by  her  side,  she  rep- 
resented to  me  her  own  situation,  as  well  as  the  neighborhood 
and  her  acquaintances,  just  as  I  wished  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  them ;  then  she  added  that  she  hoped  I  would  make  no 
exception,  and  would  visit  them  again,  as  all  strangers  had 
willingly  done  who  had  once  lodged  at  the  parsonage. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  me  to  listen  silently  to  the  descrip- 
tions which  she  gave  of  the  little  world  in  which  she  moved, 


172 


GOETHE 


and  of  the  persons  whom  she  particularly  valued.  She  thereby 
imparted  to  me  a  clear,  and,  at  the  same  time,  such  an  amiable 
idea  of  her  situation,  that  it  had  a  very  strange  effect  on  me: 
for  I  felt  at  once  a  deep  regret  that  I  had  not  lived  with  her 
sooner,  and  at  the  same  time  a  right  painful  jealous  feehng 
towards  all  who  had  hitherto  had  the  good  fortune  to  surround 
her.  I  also  watched  closely,  as  if  I  had  had  a  right  to  do  so,  all 
her  descriptions  of  men,  whether  they  appeared  under  the 
names  of  neighbors,  cousins,  or  familiar  friends,  and  my  con- 
jectures inclined  now  to  one,  now  to  another ;  but  how  should 
I  have  discovered  anything  in  my  complete  ignorance  of  all 
the  circumstances?  She  at  last  became  more  and  more  talk- 
ative, and  I  constantly  more  and  more  silent.  It  was  so  good 
to  listen  to  her,  and  as  I  heard  only  her  voice,  while  the  out- 
lines of  her  countenance,  like  the  rest  of  the  world  around, 
floated  dimly  in  the  twilight,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  see 
into  her  heart,  and  that  I  could  not  but  find  it  very  pure,  since 
it  unbosomed  itself  to  me  in  such  unembarrassed  prattle. 

When  my  companion  and  I  retired  to  the  guest-chamber 
which  was  prepared  for  us,  he,  with  self-complacency,  im- 
mediately broke  out  into  pleasant  jesting,  and  took  great 
credit  to  himself  for  having  surprised  me  so  much  with  the 
likeness  of  the  Primrose  family.  I  chimed  in  with  him,  by 
showing  myself  thankful.  "  Truly,"  cried  he,  "  the  story  is 
all  here  together.  This  family  may  well  be  compared  to  that, 
and  the  gentleman  in  disguise  here,  may  assume  the  honor 
of  passing  for  Mr.  Burchell ;  moreover,  since  scoundrels  are 
not  so  necessary  in  every-day  life  as  in  romances,  I  will  for 
this  time  undertake  the  role  of  the  nephew,  and  will  behave 
myself  better  than  he  did."  However,  I  immediately  changed 
this  conversation,  pleasant  as  it  was  to  me,  and  first  of  all 
asked  him,  on  his  conscience,  if  he  had  not  betrayed  me?  He 
answered  mc  "  No !  "  and  I  ventured  to  believe  him.  They 
had  rather  inquired,  said  he,  after  the  jovial  table-companion 
who  boarded  at  the  same  house  with  him  in  Strasburg,  and  of 
whom  they  had  heard  all  sorts  of  preposterous  stuff.  I  now 
went  to  other  questions:  Had  she  ever  been  in  love?  Was 
she  now  in  love?  Was  she  engaged?  He  said  "No"  to 
them  all.  "  In  truth,"  replied  T,  "  that  such  a  serenity  should 
conic  by  nature  is  inconceivable  to  me.    If  she  had  loved  and 


THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD  173 

lost,  and  again  recovered  herself,  or  if  she  was  betrothed,  in 
both  these  cases  I  could  account  for  it." 

Thus  we  chatted  together  till  deep  in  the  night,  and  I  was 
awake  again  at  the  dawn.  My  longing  to  see  her  once  more 
seemed  unconquerable ;  but  while  I  was  dressing  I  was  hor- 
rified at  the  confounded  wardrobe  I  had  so  capriciously  se- 
lected. The  further  I  advanced  in  putting  on  my  clothes,  the 
meaner  I  seemed  in  my  own  eyes :  for  everything  was  calcu- 
lated for  just  that  effect.  I  might  perchance  have  set  my  hair 
to  rights ;  but  when  at  last  I  forced  my  arms  into  the  bor- 
rowed, worn-out  gray  coat,  the  short  sleeves  of  which  gave 
me  the  most  absurd  appearance,  I  fell  decidedly  into  despair, 
and  the  more  so  since  I  could  see  myself  only  piece-meal,  in  a 
little  looking-glass,  and  then  each  part  always  looked  more 
ridiculous  than  the  rest. 

During  this  toilette  my  friend  awoke,  and  with  the  satisfac- 
tion of  a  good  conscience,  and  in  the  feeling  of  pleasurable 
hopes  for  the  day,  he  looked  out  at  me  from  under  the  quilted 
silk  coverlet.  I  had  envied  his  fine  clothes  for  a  long  time 
already,  as  they  hung  over  the  chair,  and  had  he  been  of  my 
size,  I  would  have  carried  them  off  before  his  very  eyes,  dressed 
myself  in  them,  and  hurrying  into  the  garden,  left  my  cursed 
husks  for  him ;  he  would  have  had  good  humor  enough  to 
deck  himself  out  in  my  clothes,  and  our  tale  would  have  found 
a  merry  ending  early  in  the  morning.  But  that  was  not  now 
to  be  thought  of,  as  little  as  any  other  feasible  accommodation. 
To  appear  again  before  Frederica  in  such  a  figure  that  my 
friend  could  give  me  out  as  a  laborious  and  accomplished  but 
poor  student  of  theology — before  Frederica,  who  yesterday 
evening  had  spoken  so  friendly  to  my  disguised  self — that  was 
altogether  impossible.  There  I  stood,  vexed  and  thoughtful, 
and  summoned  up  all  my  power  of  invention ;  alas !  it  de- 
serted me!  But  now  when  he,  comfortably  stretched  out  in 
bed,  after  fixing  his  eyes  upon  me  for  a  while,  all  at  once  burst 
out  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  exclaimed :  "  Yes !  it  is  true,  you 
do  look  most  confoundedly  !  "  I  replied  impetuously  :  "  And 
I  know  what  I  will  do.  Good-by,  and  make  my  excuses !  " 
"  Are  you  crazy !  "  cried  he.  springing  out  of  bed  and  trying 
to  detain  me.  But  I  was  already  out  of  the  door,  down  the 
stairs,  out  of  the  house  and  yard,  to  the  tavern ;  in  an  instant 


174  GOETHE 

my  horse  was  saddled,  and  I  hurried  away  in  mad  vexation, 
galloping  towards  Drusenheim,  dashed  through  the  place,  and 
still  onwards ! 

As  I  thought  myself  by  this  time  in  safety,  I  began  to  ride 
more  leisurely,  and  now  first  felt  how  infinitely  against  my 
will  I  was  going  away.  But  I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate,  re- 
called to  mind  the  promenade  of  yesterday  evening  with  the 
greatest  calmness,  and  cherished  the  secret  hope  of  seeing  her 
soon  again.  Yet  this  quiet  feeling  again  changed  itself  into 
impatience,  and  I  now  determined  to  ride  rapidly  into  the  city, 
change  my  dress,  take  a  good  fresh  horse,  and  then,  as  my 
passion  made  me  believe,  I  could  at  all  events  return  before 
dinner,  or,  as  was  more  probable,  to  the  dessert  or  towards 
evening,  and  beg  my  forgiveness. 

I  was  just  about  to  put  spurs  to  my  horse  to  execute  this  re- 
solve, when  another,  and,  as  seemed  to  me,  a  happier  thought 
came  into  my  head.  In  the  tavern  at  Drusenheim,  the  day  be- 
fore, I  had  noticed  a  son  of  the  landlord  very  nicely  dressed, 
who,  up  early  to-day  and  busied  about  his  rural  arrangements, 
had  saluted  me  from  his  court-yard  as  I  rode  by.  He  was  of 
my  size,  and  had  slightly  reminded  me  of  myself.  Thought, 
done !  My  horse  was  hardly  turned  around,  when  I  found  my- 
self in  Drusenheim ;  I  brought  him  into  the  stable,  and  made 
the  fellow  my  proposal  in  brief:  that  he  should  lend  me  his 
clothes,  as  I  had  something  merry  on  foot  at  Sesenheirn.  I 
had  no  need  to  talk  long;  he  agreed  to  the  proposition  with 
joy,  and  praised  me  for  wishing  to  make  some  sport  for  the 
Mamselles ;  they  were  so  gallant  and  good,  especially  Mamselle 
Rica,  and  the  parents,  too,  liked  to  see  everything  go  on  merry 
and  pleasant.  He  considered  me  attentively,  and  as  from  my 
appearance  he  might  have  taken  mc  for  a  poor  starveling,  he 
said :  "  If  you  wish  to  insinuate  yourself  into  their  good  graces, 
this  is  the  right  way."  Meanwhile  we  had  already  made  rapid 
advances  in  our  toilette ;  he  could  not  indeed  trust  me  with  his 
holiday  clothes  on  the  strength  of  mine ;  l)ut  he  was  honest- 
hearted,  and  had  my  horse  in  his  stable.  I  soon  stood  there 
right  trig,  threw  back  my  shoulders,  and  my  friend  seemed 
to  contemplate  his  likeness  with  complacency.  "  Well,  Mr. 
Brother!  "  said  he,  fi^iving  me  his  hand,  which  T  grasped  licarti- 
ly,  "  don't  come  too  near  my  gal,  she  might  mistake  you !  " 


THE   VICAR   OF    WAKEFIELD  175 

My  hair,  which  now  had  its  full  growth  again,  I  could  part 
at  top  pretty  much  like  his,  and  as  I  looked  at  him  repeatedly, 
I  found  it  comical  to  imitate  closely  his  thicker  eyebrows,  with 
a  burnt  cork,  and  bring  mine  nearer  together  in  the  middle, 
so  as  with  my  enigmatical  intentions,  to  make  myself  an  ex- 
ternal riddle  likewise.  "  Now  have  you  not,"  said  I,  as  he 
handed  me  his  beribboned  hat,  "  something  or  other  to  be 
done  at  the  parsonage,  so  that  I  may  announce  myself  there  in 
a  natural  manner  ?  "  "  Good !  "  replied  he,  "  but  then  you 
must  wait  two  hours  yet.  There  is  a  confinement  at  our  house ; 
I  will  offer  to  take  the  cake  to  the  parson's  wife,-  and  you 
might  carry  it  over  there.  Pride  must  be  paid  for,  and  so  must 
a  joke."  I  concluded  to  wait,  but  these  two  hours  were  infin- 
itely long,  and  I  was  dying  of  impatience  when  the  third  hour 
passed  by  before  the  cake  came  out  of  the  oven.  I  got  it  at 
last,  quite  hot,  and  hastened  away  with  my  credentials  in  the 
most  beautiful  sunshine,  accompanied  for  a  space  by  my  ditto, 
who  promised  to  come  after  me  in  the  evening  and  bring  me 
my  clothes,  which  however,  I  briskly  declined,  and  reserved 
to  myself  the  privilege  of  returning  him  his  own  when  I  was 
done  with  them. 

I  had  not  skipped  far  with  my  present,  which  I  carried  neatly 
tied  up  in  a  napkin,  when,  in  the  distance,  I  saw  my  friend  ap- 
proaching with  the  two  ladies.  My  heart  was  uneasy,  al- 
though in  fact  it  was  unnecessary  under  this  jacket.  I  stood 
still,  took  breath,  and  tried  to  think  how  I  should  begin ;  and 
now  I  first  remarked  that  the  nature  of  the  ground  was  very 
much  in  my  favor;  for  they  were  w^alking  on  the  other  side 
of  the  brook,  which,  together  with  the  strips  of  meadow 
through  which  it  ran,  kept  the  two  foot-paths  pretty  far  apart. 
When  they  were  just  opposite  to  me,  Frederica,  who  had  al- 
ready perceived  me  long  before,  cried :  **  George,  what  have 
you  got  there?  "  I  was  clever  enough  to  cover  my  face  with 
my  hat,  which  I  took  ofif,  at  the  same  time  holding  up  the 
loaded  napkin  high  in  the  air.  "  A  christening-cake !  "  cried 
she  at  that ;  "  how  does  your  sister  do !  "  "  Gooed,"  said  I, 
for  I  tried  to  talk  strange,  if  not  exactly  in  the  Alsatian  dialect. 
"  Carry  it  to  the  house !  "  said  the  elder,  "  and  if  you  do  not 

*[This  was  the  general  custom  of  the  country  villages  in  Protestant  Germany 
pn  such  occasions.] 


176  GOETHE 

find  mother,  give  it  to  the  maid;  but  wait  for  us,  we  will  be 
back  soon,  do  you  hear  ?  "  I  hastened  along  my  path  in  the 
joyous  feehng  of  the  best  hope  that,  as  the  beginning  was  so 
lucky,  all  would  go  off  well,  and  I  soon  reached  the  parsonage. 
I  found  nobody  either  in  the  house  or  the  kitchen ;  I  did  not 
wish  to  disturb  the  old  gentleman,  whom  I  might  have  sup- 
posed busy  in  the  study ;  I  therefore  sat  me  down  on  the  bench 
before  the  door,  placed  the  cake  beside  me,  and  pressed  my 
hat  upon  my  face. 

I  cannot  easily  recall  more  delightful  sensations.  To  sit 
here  again  on  this  threshold,  over  which,  a  short  time  before, 
I  had  blundered  out  in  despair;  to  have  seen  her  already,  to 
have  heard  her  dear  voice  again  so  soon  after  my  chagrin  had 
pictured  to  me  a  long  separation,  to  be  expecting  every  mo- 
ment herself,  and  a  discovery  at  which  my  heart  throbbed  fast, 
and  yet,  in  this  ambiguous  case,  it  would  be  an  exposure  with- 
out shame ;  for  from  its  very  beginning  it  was  a  merrier  prank 
than  any  of  those  they  had  laughed  at  so  much  yesterday. 
Love  and  necessity  are  yet  the  best  masters ;  they  both  worked 
together  here,  and  their  pupil  was  not  unworthy  of  them. 

But  the  maid  came  stepping  out  of  the  barn.  "  Now !  did  the 
cake  turn  out  well ! "  cried  she  to  me ;  "how  does  your  sister  do ?" 
"  All  gooed,"  said  I,  and  pointed  to  the  cake  without  looking  up. 
She  took  up  the  napkin  and  muttered :  "  Now  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  you  to-day  again?  Has  little  Barbara  been  looking 
at  somebody  else  once  more  ?  Don't  let  us  suffer  for  tha-t !  A 
happy  couple  you  will  make,  if  you  carry  on  so !  "  As  she 
spoke  pretty  loud,  the  parson  came  to  the  window  and  asked : 
"What's  the  matter?"  She  showed  him;  I  stood  up  and 
turned  myself  towards  him,  but  yet  kept  the  hat  over  my  face. 
As  he  spoke  rather  kindly  to  me  and  had  asked  me  to  remain, 
I  went  towards  the  garden,  and  was  just  going  in  when  the 
parson's  wife,  who  was  entering  the  court-yard  gate,  called 
to  me.  As  the  sun  shone  right  in  my  face,  I  once  more  took 
advantage  of  my  hat,  and  saluted  her  with  a  ploughman's 
scrape ;  but  she  went  into  the  house  after  she  had  bidden  me 
not  go  away  without  eating  something.  I  now  walked  up 
and  down  in  the  garden  ;  everything  had  hitherto  had  the  best 
success,  yet  I  drew  a  deep  breath  when  I  reflected  that  the 
young  people  would  soon  return.     But  the  mother  unexpcct- 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD  177 

edly  stepped  up  to  me,  and  was  just  going  to  ask  me  a  ques- 
tion, when  she  looked  me  in  the  face  so  that  I  could  not  con- 
ceal myself  any  longer,  and  the  question  stuck  in  her  mouth. 
"  I  was  looking  for  George,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  "  and 
whom  do  I  find?  Is  it  you,  young  sir?  How  many  forms 
have  you,  then?"  "In  earnest  only  one,"  replied  I;  "in 
sport  as  many  as  you  like."  "  Which  sport  I  will  not  spoil," 
smiled  she ;  "  go  out  behind  the  garden  and  into  the  meadow 
until  it  strikes  twelve,  then  come  back,  and  I  will  already  have 
contrived  the  joke."  I  did  so;  but  when  I  was  outside  of  the 
hedge  that  bounds  the  village  gardens,  and  was  going  into  the 
meadow,  I  saw  some  country  people  coming  along  the  foot- 
path towards  me,  who  embarrassed  me.  I  therefore  turned 
aside  into  a  little  grove  which  crowned  an  elevation  near  by, 
in  order  to  conceal  myself  there  till  the  appointed  time.  Yet 
how  strangely  was  I  surprised  when  I  entered  it!  for  it  ap- 
peared to  be  a  neatly  trimmed  place,  with  benches,  from  every 
one  of  which  could  be  enjoyed  a  fine  view  of  the  country. 
Here  were  the  village  and  the  church  tower,  here  Drusenheim, 
and  behind  it  the  woody  islands  of  the  Rhine,  in  the  opposite 
direction  was  the  Vosgian  mountain-range,  and  at  last  the 
minster  of  Strasburg.  These  different  heaven-bright  pictures 
were  surrounded  by  frames  of  foliage,  so  that  one  could  imag- 
ine nothing  more  joyous  and  more  pleasing.  I  sat  me  down 
upon  one  of  the  benches  and  noticed  on  the  largest  tree  an 
oblong  little  board  with  the  inscription :  "  Frederica's  Re- 
pose." It  never  entered  into  my  head  that  I  could  have  come 
to  disturb  this  repose :  for  a  budding  passion  has  this  beauty 
about  it,  that,  as  it  is  unconscious  of  its  origin,  neither  does 
it  spend  any  thought  upon  its  end,  and  as  it  feels  itself  glad 
and  cheerful,  it  can  have  no  presentiment  that  it  may  make 
mischief  too. 

Scarcely  had  I  had  time  to  look  about  me  and  lose  myself 
in  sweet  reveries,  when  I  heard  somebody  coming;  it  was 
Frederica  herself.  "  George,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  she 
cried  from  a  distance.  "  Not  George!"  cried  I,  running  to- 
wards her,  "  but  one  who  craves  forgiveness  of  you  a  thousand 
times."  She  looked  at  me  with  astonishment,  but  soon  col- 
lected herself  and  said,  after  drawing  a  deeper  breath :  "  You 
abominable  fellow,  how  you  frightened  me !  "    "  The  first  dis- 


178  GOETHE 

guise  has  led  me  into  the  second,"  exclaimed  I ;  "  the  former 
would  have  been  unpardonable  if  I  had  only  known  in  any 
manner  whom  I  was  going  to  see,  but  this  one  you  will  cer- 
tainly forgive,  for  it  is  the  form  of  a  man  whom  you  meet  in 
so  friendly  a  manner."  Her  pale  cheeks  had  colored  up  with 
the  loveliest  rosy  red.  "  You  shall  not  be  treated  worse  than 
George,  at  all  events !  But  let  us  sit  down !  I  confess  that  the 
fright  has  thrilled  through  all  my  limbs."  I  sat  down  beside 
her,  exceedingly  agitated.  "  We  know  everything  already 
from  your  friend,  up  to  this  morning,"  said  she,  "  now  do  you 
tell  me  the  rest."  I  did  not  suffer  her  to  ask  twice,  but  de- 
scribed to  her  my  horror  at  my  yesterday's  figure,  and  my 
rushing  out  of  the  house,  so  comically  that  she  laughed  heartily 
and  deHghtedly ;  then  I  went  on  with  what  followed,  with  all 
modesty,  indeed,  yet  passionately  enough  to  have  well  passed 
for  a  declaration  of  love  in  historical  form.  At  last  I  solemn- 
ized my  pleasure  at  finding  her  again,  by  a  kiss  upon  her  hand, 
which  she  suffered  to  remain  in  mine.  If  she  had  taken  upon 
herself  the  expense  of  the  conversation  during  yesterday  even- 
ing's moonlight  walk,  I  now,  on  my  part,  richly  repaid  the 
debt.  The  pleasure  of  seeing  her  again,  and  being  able  to  say 
to  her  everything  that  I  had  kept  back  yesterday,  was  so  great, 
that,  in  my  eloquence,  I  did  not  remark  how  meditative  and 
silent  she  was  becoming.  Once  more  she  drew  a  deep  breath, 
and  over  and  over  again  I  begged  her  forgiveness  for  the 
fright  which  I  had  caused  her.  How  long  we  may  have  sat 
here  I  know  not;  but  all  at  once  we  heard  someone  call, 
"  Rica !  Rica !  "  It  was  the  voice  of  her  sister.  "  That  will 
be  a  pretty  story  to  tell,"  said  the  dear  girl,  restored  to  her 
perfect  serenity  again ;  "  she  is  coming  hither  from  the  side 
next  to  me,"  added  she,  bending  over  so  as  half  to  conceal  me: 
"  turn  yourself  away,  so  that  she  will  not  recognize  you  at 
once."  The  sister  came  up  to  the  spot,  but  not  alone ;  Wey- 
land  was  witli  her,  and  both,  as  soon  as  they  saw  us,  stood 
still  as  if  petrified. 

If  we  should  all  at  once  see  a  powerful  flame  burst  out  from 
a  quiet  roof,  or  should  meet  a  monster  whose  deformity  was 
at  the  same  time  revolting  and  fearful,  we  should  not  be  struck 
with  such  massive  astonishment  as  seizes  us,  when,  unexpect- 
edly, we  see  with  our  own  eyes  something  we  had  believed 


THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD  179 

morally  impossible.  "  What  is  this  ?  "  cried  the  elder,  with 
the  rapidity  of  one  who  is  frightened  to  death,  "  What  is  this? 
you  with  George !  Hand-in-hand !  How  am  I  to  understand 
this?  "  "  Dear  sister,"  replied  Frederica,  very  doubtfully,  "  the 
poor  fellow  is  begging  something  of  me  ;he  has  something  to  beg 
of  you,  too,  you  must  forgive  him  beforehand."  "  I  don't  under- 
stand— I  don't  comprehend "  said  her  sister,  shaking  her 

head  and  looking  at  Weyland,  who,  in  his  quiet  way,  stood  by  in 
perfect  tranquillity,  and  contemplated  the  scene  without  any  kind 
of  expression.  Frederica  arose  and  drew  me  after  her.  "  No 
hesitating !  "  cried  she.  "  Pardon  begged  and  granted  !  "  "  Now 
do !  "  said  I,  stepping  pretty  near  the  elder,  "  I  have  need  of 
pardon !  "  She  drew  back,  gave  a  loud  shriek,  and  blushed 
over  and  over,  then  threw  herself  down  on  the  grass,  burst  into 
a  roar  of  laughter,  and  could  not  get  enough  of  it.  Weyland 
smiled  as  if  pleased,  and  cried :  "  You  are  a  rare  youth !  " 
Then  he  shook  my  hand  in  his.  He  was  not  usually  liberal 
with  his  caresses,  but  his  shake  of  the  hand  had  something 
hearty  and  enlivening  about  it;  yet  he  was  sparing  of  this 
also. 

After  taking  some  time  to  recover  and  collect  ourselves,  we 
set  out  on  our  return  to  the  village.  On  the  way  I  learned  how 
this  singular  rencounter  had  been  occasioned.  Frederica  had 
at  last  parted  from  the  promenaders  to  rest  herself  in  her 
little  nook  for  a  moment  before  dinner,  and  when  the  other 
two  came  back  to  the  house,  the  mother  had  sent  them  to  call 
Frederica  in  the  greatest  haste,  as  dinner  was  ready. 

The  elder  sister  manifested  the  most  extravagant  delight, 
and  when  she  learned  that  the  mother  had  already  discovered 
the  secret,  she  exclaimed :  "  All  that  is  left  now  is  that  father, 
brother,  servant-man,  and  maid  should  be  cheated  likewise." 
When  we  were  at  the  garden-hedge,  Frederica  insisted  upon 
going  beforehand  into  the  house  with  my  friend.  The  maid 
was  busy  in  the  kitchen-garden,  and  Olivia  (for  so  I  may  be 
allowed  to  name  the  elder  sister  here)  called  out  to  her :  "  Here, 
I  have  something  to  tell  you !  "  She  left  me  standing  by  the 
hedge,  and  went  towards  the  maid.  I  saw  that  she  was  speak- 
ing to  her  very  earnestly.  Olivia  represented  to  her  that 
George  had  quarrelled  with  Barbara,  and  seemed  desirous  of 
marrying  her.     The  lass  was  not  displeased  at  this;  I  was 


l8o  GOETHE 

now  called,  and  was  to  confirm  what  had  been  said.  The 
handsome,  stout  girl  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  remained  so  till 
I  stood  quite  near  before  her.  But  when,  all  at  once,  she  looked 
into  the  strange  face,  she  too  gave  a  loud  scream  and  ran  away. 
Olivia  bade  me  run  after  her  and  hold  her  fast,  so  that  she 
should  not  get  into  the  house  and  give  the  alarm;  while  she 
herself  wished  to  go  and  see  how  it  was  with  her  father.  On 
the  way  Olivia  met  the  servant-boy,  who  was  in  love  with  the 
maid ;  I  had  in  the  mean  time  hurried  after  the  maid,  and  held 
her  fast.  "  Only  think !  what  good  luck !  "  cried  OHvia:  "  it's 
all  over  with  Barbara,  and  George  marries  Liese."  "  I  have 
thought  he  would  for  a  long  while,"  said  the  good  fellow,  and 
stood  there  disconsolate. 

I  had  given  the  maid  to  understand,  that  all  we  had  yet  to 
do  was  to  cheat  the  father.  We  went  up  to  the  lad,  who  turned 
away  and  would  have  walked  off;  but  Liese  took  him  aside, 
and  he,  too,  when  he  was  undeceived,  made  the  most  extra- 
ordinary gestures.  We  went  together  to  the  house.  The  table 
was  covered,  and  the  father  already  in  the  room.  Olivia,  who 
kept  me  behind  her,  stepped  to  the  threshold  and  said :  "  Fath- 
er, you  have  no  objections  to  George's  dining  with  us  to-day? 
but  you  must  let  him  keep  his  hat  on."  "  With  all  my  heart !  " 
said  the  old  man,  "  but  why  such  an  unusual  thing?  Has  he 
hurt  himself?"  She  led  me  forward  as  I  stood,  with  my  hat 
on.  "  No !  "  said  she,  handing  me  into  the  room,  "  but  he  has 
a  bird-cage  under  it,  and  the  birds  might  fly  out  and  make  a 
deuce  of  a  fuss ;  for  there  are  nothing  but  loose  wild  birds 
there."  The  father  was  pleased  with  the  joke,  without  pre- 
cisely knowing  what  it  meant.  At  this  instant  she  took  off  my 
hat,  made  a  ploughman's  scrape,  and  required  me  to  do  the 
same.  The  old  man  looked  at  me,  recognized  me,  but  was  not 
put  out  of  his  priestly  self-possession.  "  Ay,  ay,  Mr.  Candi- 
date !  "  exclaimed  he,  raising  a  threatening  finger  at  me :  "  You 
have  changed  saddles  very  quickly,  and  over-night  I  have  lost 
an  assistant,  who  yesterday  promised  me  so  faithfully  that  he 
would  often  mount  my  pulpit  on  week-days."  Thereupon  he 
laughed  heartily,  bade  me  welcome,  and  we  sat  down  to  table. 
Moses  came  in  much  later;  for,  as  the  youngest  and  spoiled 
child,  he  had  accustomed  himself  not  to  hear  the  dinner-bell. 
Besides,  he  took  very  little  notice  of  the  company,  scarce  even 


THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD  i8i 

when  he  contradicted  them.  In  order  to  make  surer  of  him, 
they  had  placed  me,  not  between  the  sisters,  but  at  the  end  of 
the  table,  where  George  often  used  to  sit.  As  he  came  in  at 
the  door,  which  was  behind  me,  he  slapped  me  smartly  on  the 
shoulder,  and  said :  "  Good  dinner  to  you,  George !  "  "  Many 
thanks,  youngster!"  replied  I.  The  strange  voice  and  the 
strange  face  startled  him.  "What  say  you?"  cried  Olivia: 
"does  he  not  look  very  like  his  brother?"  "Yes,  from  be- 
hind," replied  Moses,  who  managed  to  recover  his  composure 
immediately,  like  other  folk.  He  did  not  look  at  me  again, 
and  busied  himself  merely  with  zealously  devouring  the  dishes, 
in  order  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Then,  too,  he  thought 
proper  occasionally  to  find  something  for  himself  to  do  in  the 
yard  and  the  garden.  At  the  dessert  the  genuine  George  came 
in,  and  made  the  scene  still  more  hvely.  They  rallied  him  for 
his  jealousy,  and  would  not  praise  him  for  having  gotten  him- 
self a  rival  in  me ;  but  he  was  modest  and  clever  enough,  and, 
in  a  half-confused  manner,  he  mixed  up  himself,  his  sweet- 
heart, his  ditto,  and  the  Mamselles  with  each  other  to  such  a 
degree  that  at  last  nobody  could  tell  whom  he  was  talking 
about,  so  that  they  were  glad  to  give  him  a  glass  of  wine  and 
a  piece  of  his  own  cake  to  eat,  to  keep  him  quiet. 

At  table  there  was  some  talk  about  going  to  walk ;  which 
however  did  not  suit  me  very  well  in  my  peasant's  clothes. 
But  the  ladies,  early  on  that  day  already,  when  they  learned 
who  had  run  away  in  such  a  desperate  hurry,  had  remembered 
that  a  hunting-coat  of  a  cousin  of  theirs,  in  which  he  used  to 
go  sporting  when  he  was  here,  was  hanging  in  a  clothes-press. 
Yet  I  declined,  apparently  with  all  sorts  of  jokes,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  secret  vanity,  not  wishing,  as  cousin,  to  disturb  the 
good  impression  I  had  made  in  the  character  of  peasant.  The 
father  had  gone  to  take  his  afternoon  nap ;  the  mother,  as  al- 
ways, was  busy  about  her  housewifery.  But  my  friend  pro- 
posed that  I  should  tell  them  some  story,  to  which  I  im- 
mediately agreed.  We  repaired  to  a  spacious  arbor,  and  I 
gave  them  a  tale  which  I  have  since  written  out  under  the  title 
of  "  The  New  Melusina."  It  bears  about  the  same  relation  to 
"  The  New  Paris  "  as  the  youth  bears  to  the  boy,  and  I  would 
insert  it  here,  were  I  not  afraid  of  injuring,  by  its  outlandish 
play  of  fancy,  the  rural  reality  and  simplicity  which  agreeably 


182  GOETHE 

surround  us.  Enough:  I  succeeded  in  that  which  rewards 
the  inventors  and  narrators  of  such  productions,  I  succeeded 
in  awakening  curiosity,  in  fixing  the  attention,  in  inciting  them 
to  give  over-hasty  solutions  of  impenetrable  riddles,  in  de- 
ceiving their  expectations,  in  confusing  them  by  making  that 
wonderful  which  was  merely  strange,  in  arousing  sympathy 
and  fear,  in  making  them  anxious,  in  moving  them ;  and  at 
last,  by  the  inversion  of  what  was  apparently  sober  earnest 
into  an  ingenious  and  cheerful  jest,  this  little  tale  satisfied  the 
mind,  leaving  behind  it  materials  for  new  images  to  the  im- 
agination, and  to  the  understanding  for  further  reflection. 

Should  anyone  hereafter  read  this  tale  in  print,  and  doubt 
whether  it  could  have  and  produce  such  an  effect,  let  him  re- 
member that,  properly  speaking,  man  is  only  intended  to  have 
influence  while  present.  Writing  is  an  abuse  of  language, 
reading  silently  to  one's  self  is  a  pitiful  succedaneum  of  speech. 
The  strongest  influence  in  a  man's  power  is  made  by  his  per- 
sonal presence,  youth  is  the  most  powerful  upon  youth,  and 
hence  too  arise  the  purest  influences.  These  are  they  which 
enliven  the  world,  and  can  perish  neither  morally  nor  physi- 
cally. I  had  inherited  from  my  father  a  certain  loquacious 
fondness  for  teaching;  from  my  mother  the  faculty  of  repre- 
senting, clearly  and  powerfully,  everything  that  the  imagina- 
tion can  produce  or  grasp,  of  giving  a  freshness  to  known 
stories,  of  inventing  and  relating  others,  and  even  making 
them  up  as  I  went  along.  By  my  paternal  endowment  I  was 
for  the  most  part  rather  a  bore  to  the  company :  for  who  likes 
to  listen  to  the  opinions  and  sentiments  of  another,  especially 
a  youth,  whose  judgment,  on  account  of  his  fragmentary  ex- 
perience, seems  constantly  insufficient?  My  mother,  on  the 
contrary,  had  thoroughly  qualified  me  for  social  conversations. 
For  to  the  imagination  even  the  emptiest  tale  has  ^an  elevated 
charm,  and  even  the  smallest  quantity  of  solid  matter  is  thank- 
fully received  by  the  understanding. 

By  such  recitals,  which  cost  me  nothing,  I  made  myself  be- 
loved by  children,  I  excited  and  delighted  youth,  and  drew 
upon  me  the  attention  of  older  persons.  But  in  society,  such 
as  it  commonly  is,  T  was  soon  obliged  to  stop  these  practices, 
and  T  have  thereby  lost  but  too  much  of  the  enjoyment  of  the 
world  and  of  intellectual   improvement ;  yet  both  these  par- 


THE   VICAR   OF    WAKEFIELD  183 

ental  gifts  accompanied  me  throughout  my  whole  Hfe,  united 
with  a  third,  namely  the  necessity  of  expressing  myself  figu- 
ratively and  by  comparisons.  In  consideration  of  these  pecul- 
iarities, Doctor  Gall,  a  man  of  as  much  profundity  as  acute- 
ness,  discovering  them  by  his  theory,  assured  me  that  I  was 
properly  speaking  born  for  a  popular  orator.  At  this  dis- 
closure I  was  not  a  little  confounded:  for  as  I  discovered,  in 
my  nation,  no  opportunity  to  harangue  about  anything,  it 
would  follow,  if  his  assertion  were  well  grounded,  that  every- 
thing else  I  could  undertake  would  have  been,  alas,  but  a  mis- 
taken vocation! 


UPON  NAIVE  AND  SENTIMENTAL 
POETRY 


BY 


FRIEDRICH    VON    SCHILLER 


I— Vol.  60 


JOHANN   CHRISTOPH   FRIEDRICH  VON   SCHILLER 
i75c^— i8os 

The  most  popular  of  German  poets,  Joharin  Christoph  Friedrich  von 
Schiller,  was  born  at  Marbach,  in  the  duchy  of  Wiirtemberg,  in  1759. 
His  own  tastes  and  the  wishes  of  his  father  inclined  him  to  the  min- 
istry, but  poverty  forced  him  to  accept  the  offer  of  the  Duke  of  Wiir- 
temberg to  educate  him  at  the  Karlschule  in  Stuttgart.  The  narrow 
repressive  discipline  of  this  institution  fostered  in  the  fiery  youth  a 
spirit  of  rebellion,  which  found  vent  in  his  first  drama,  "  The  Robbers," 
written  when  he  was  nineteen,  and  published  three  years  later.  This 
stormy,  impetuous  tragedy  startled  not  only  Germany,  but  all  Europe. 
Translations  soon  appeared  in  several  languages,  and  its  author,  like 
Byron  after  the  publication  of  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers," 
awoke  one  morning  to  find  himself  famous.  The  revolutionary  spirit 
pervading  the  play,  however,  brought  on  him  the  displeasure  of  the 
Duke,  and,  to  escape  persecution  and  possible  imprisonment,  Schiller 
fled  to  Mannheim,  and  soon  afterward  to  Leipsic.  During  the  period 
following  he  wrote  many  of  his  lyrics,  but  an  incessant  struggle  with 
poverty  prevented  him  from  devoting  his  best  energies  to  literature. 
One  of  the  great  events  of  his  life  was  his  first  visit  to  Weimar,  in 
1787,  where  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Wieland  and  Herder.  In 
the  following  year  he  met  Goethe.  There  seemed  to  be  at  that  time 
a  wide  difference  in  the  tendencies,  mode  of  thought,  and  literary  aims 
of  the  two  poets,  and  their  first  meeting  resulted  in  little  more  than 
the  exchange  of  formal  courtesies  and  the  beginning  of  a  formal  cor- 
respondence. It  was  not  until  1794,  after  a  conversation  on  scientific 
subjects,  that  the  eyes  of  the  older  poet  were  opened  to  the  worth  of 
the  younger.  After  this  their  friendship  grew  strong  and  fast,  ripening 
into  one  of  the  most  beautiful  examples  to  be  found  in  the  history  of 
literature.  To  this  friendship  Goethe  ascribes  what  he  calls  his  second 
youth.  The  publication  of  his  "  History  of  the  Revolt  of  the  Nether- 
lands," in  1788,  called  attention  to  Schiller  as  an  original  investigator; 
and  in  recognition  of  this  he  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of  history  at 
Jena.  Here  he  wrote  his  "  History  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War."  In- 
fluenced by  Kant,  he  abandoned  history  for  philosophical  investigation, 
chiefly  along  the  line  of  aesthetics  and  criticism.  In  his  essay  "  On  Naive 
and  Sentimental  Poetry,"  Goethe  thought  Schiller  had  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  modern  criticism.  His  intimacy  with  Goethe  after  1794  was  the 
cause  of  an  increased  lyrical  activity,  and  scarcely  a  year  passed  with- 
out remiirkable  poetical  works  coming  from  his  pen.  For  seven  years 
he  worked  at  his  trilogy  of  "  Wallenstein,"  and  in  1798-99  the  work 
was  produced  at  Weimar.  In  1799  he  removed  to  Weimar  to  be  in 
close  touch  with  Goctho.  Here  he  wrote  "  Marie  Stuart,"  "  The  Maid 
of  Orleans,"  "  The  Bride  of  Messina,"  and,  in  1804,  "  Wilhelm  Tell," 
his  last  drama.  The  following  year  he  died,  at  the  early  age  of  forty- 
six.     In  1802  he  received  a  patent  of  nobility. 

As  a  dramatist,  among  the  modern  writers,  Schiller  has  been  surpassed 
only  by  Goethe  and  Sliakespeare.  As  a  poet,  not  even  Goethe  ranks 
.so  high  in  the  estimation  of  the  German  people.  Schiller's  poems 
appeal  decidedly  more  to  popular  sympathy,  although  Goethe  un- 
doubtedly touched  chords  tliat  were  more  profound.  In  his  style, 
both  in  pf)clry  and  prose,  Schiller  is  clear  and  methodical,  a  master  of 
words,  and  always  effective. 


186 


UPON   NAfVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY 

THERE  are  moments  in  onr  life  when  we  feel  a  kind  of 
love  and  tender  respect  for  nature  in  plants,  minerals, 
animals,  landscapes,  and  for  human  nature  in  children, 
in  the  manners  of  rustics  and  of  the  primitive  times :  not  on 
account  of  its  sensuous  interest,  nor  because  it  satisfies  our 
intellect  or  taste,  for  the  opposite  may  often  occur  with  both, 
but  solely  because  it  is  nature.  Every  cultivated  man,  not  en- 
tirely deficient  in  feeling,  is  sensible  of  this,  when  he  walks  in 
the  open  air,  or  is  living  in  the  country,  or  lingers  near  the 
monuments  of  past  time :  in  short,  when  he  is  overtaken,  in  the 
midst  of  artificial  relations  and  situations,  by  the  simplicity  of 
nature.  It  is  this  interest,  often  amounting  to  a  want,  which 
underlies  many  of  our  passions  for  flowers  and  creatures,  for 
simple  gardens,  for  walks,  for  the  country  and  its  inhabitants, 
for  many  products  of  distant  antiquity,  and  the  like.  But  this 
presupposes  that  neither  affectation  nor  an  otherwise  acciden- 
tal interest  comes  into  play.  Then  this  kind  of  interest  in 
nature  occurs  only  under  two  conditions.  In  the  first  place  it 
is  absolutely  necessary  that  the  object  which  excites  it  should 
be  nature,  or  taken  for  such  by  us :  secondly,  that,  in  the  widest 
signification  of  the  term,  it  should  be  naive,  that  is,  that  nature 
should  stand  in  contrast  with  art,  and  rebuke  it.  Nature  be- 
comes naive  as  soon  as  these  two  conditions  are  combined. 

From  this  point  of  view  nature  becomes  for  us  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  independent  being,  the  persistence  of  things  by 
themselves,  existence  according  to  peculiar  and  immutable 
laws. 

This  conception  is  absolutely  prerequisite,  if  we  would  take 
interest  in  like  phenomena.  Could  one,  with  the  completest 
deception,  give  a  natural  look  to  an  artificial  flower,  or  carry  the 
imitation  of  naive  manners  to  the  highest  point  of  illusion, 
the  discovery  that  it  was  all  imitation  would  entirely  destroy 

187 


l88  SCHILLER 

the  feeling  of  which  we  speak.^  Whence  it  is  clear  that  this 
kind  of  pleasure  in  nature  is  moral  and  not  esthetic :  for  it  is 
mediated  by  an  idea,  and  is  not  created  by  direct  contempla- 
tion. Besides  which,  it  is  by  no  means  directed  towards  beauty 
of  form.  For  instance:  what  attraction  would  a  colorless 
flower,  a  fountain,  a  mossy  stone,  the  twitter  of  birds,  the  hum- 
ming of  bees,  have  for  us  in  themselves?  What  could  give 
them  a  claim  to  our  love?  We  do  not  love  the  objects  them- 
selves, but  the  ideas  they  represent.  We  love  in  each  of  them 
the  still,  creative  life,  the  tranquil  production  out  of  itself,  ex- 
istence according  to  its  own  laws,  eternal  unity  with  itself. 

They  are  what  we  were ;  they  are  what  we  again  should  be. 
Like  them,  we  were  nature ;  and  our  culture  ought  to  lead  us 
back  to  nature,  by  the  path  of  reason  and  freedom.  Then 
they  are  at  the  same  time  the  representation  of  our  lost  child- 
hood, which  forever  remains  the  dearest  to  us :  hence,  they  fill 
us  with  a  certain  sadness ;  and  at  the  same  time  the  representa- 
tion of  our  loftiest  completion  in  the  ideal :  hence,  they  give  us 
a  sublime  emotion. 

But  their  completeness  is  not  their  merit,  since  it  is  not  the 
work  of  their  own  choice.  They  secure  for  us,  then,  this  en- 
tirely peculiar  pleasure,  that  without  making  us  ashamed,  they 
are  our  model.  They  surround  us,  as  a  continual  divine  mani- 
festation, but  more  refreshing  than  dazzling.  What  makes 
their  character  complete  is  exactly  that  in  which  our  own  is 
deficient :  what  distinguishes  us  from  them  is  exactly  that  of 
divinity  in  which  they  fail.  We  are  free,  and  they  are  neces- 
sary: we  alter,  they  remain  one.  But  the  divine  or  the  ideal 
obtains,  only  when  the  differences  are  blended,  when  the  will 
follows  freely  the  law  of  necessity,  and  the  reason  maintains 
its  sway  through  every  change  of  fancy.  Then  we  forever  per- 
ceive in  them  that  which  we  lack,  but  for  which  we  are  invited 
to  strive,  and  to  which,  even  though  we  never  attain  it,  we 
may  yet  hope  to  approximate  in  an  infinite  progression.     We 

*  K.int,  the  first  to  my  knowkdgfe  who  interest     in     the     beautiful.      Whoever 

directed     reflection     expressly     towards  has  learned   to  admire  the  author  only 

this    phenomenon,    remarks,    that    if    we  as    a    great    tliinkcr,    will    here    be    de- 

hearfl  a  man  imitate  with  complete  sue-  lighted    to    meet    with    a    trace    of    his 

cess  the  note  of  a  nightingale,  and  vicld-  heart;     and    to    be    convinced,    by    the 

ed    to    the     impression     with     profound  discovery,    of    his    fitness    for    this    lofty 

emotion,  all   our  pleasure  would   vanish  vocation,      which      unquestionably      dc- 

with    the    dissipation    of    thi^    illusion.  rnands   the   union   of   both    those   quali- 

Sec  the  chapter  in  the  "  Critique  of  ^^Es-  ties, 
thctic     Judgment,"     upon     intellectual 


UPON    NAIVE    AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY  X89 

perceive  in  ourselves  a  superiority,  which  they  lack,  but  which 
they  can  either  never  share,  like  the  senseless  creation,  or  only^ 
as  they  proceed  in  our  path,  like  the  state  of  childhood.  Hence, 
as  idea,  they  create  for  us  the  sweetest  enjoyment  of  our  man- 
hood, although  they  must  of  necessity  humiliate  us  with  re- 
spect to  each  determinate  condition  of  our  manhood. 

As  this  interest  for  nature  is  based  upon  an  idea,  it  can  be 
shown  only  in  dispositions  susceptible  of  ideas,  that  is,  in  moral 
ones.  By  far  the  majority  of  men  only  affect  it ;  and  the  uni- 
versality of  this  sentimental  taste  in  our  times,  which  displays 
itself,  especially  since  the  appearance  of  certain  writings,  in 
affected  travels,  gardens  of  like  sort,  walks  and  other  fond- 
nesses of  the  kind,  is  no  proof  at  all  for  the  universality  of  the 
true  sentiment.  Yet  nature  will  always  exert  something  of 
this  influence  upon  the  most  insensible,  since  for  that  the  com- 
mon bias  of  all  men  to  the  moral  is  adequate ;  and  all  of  us 
without  distinction,  however  great  a  disproportion  there  may, 
be  between  our  acts  and  the  simplicity  and  truth  of  nature, 
are  compelled  to  that  in  idea.  This  sentiment  for  nature  and 
incitement  from  objects  standing  in  a  close  relation  with  us — • 
as  for  example,  children  and  childlike  people — and  bringing 
nearer  to  us  both  self-retrospection  and  our  own  unnatiire,  is 
especially  strong  and  universal.  It  is  erroneous  to  suppose 
that  it  is  only  the  appearance  of  helplessness  which  makes  us, 
at  certain  times,  Hnger  with  so  much  emotion  near  children. 
Perhaps  that  may  be  the  case  with  some,  who  are  wont  to  feel, 
in  the  presence  of  weakness,  nothing  but  their  own  superiority. 
But  the  feeling  of  which  I  speak  occurring  only  in  entirely 
moral  dispositions,  and  not  to  be  confounded  with  that  excited 
by  the  playful  activity  of  children,  is  rather  humiliating  than 
gratifying  to  self-love ;  and  indeed  if  any  superiority  is  notice- 
able at  all,  it  is  by  no  means  on  our  side.  We  experience  emo- 
tion, not  while  we  look  down  upon  the  child  from  the  height 
of  our  power  and  perfection,  but  while  we  look  up,  out  of  the 
limitation  of  our  condition  which  is  inseparable  from  the  defi- 
nite mode  to  which  we  have  attained,  at  the  child's  boundless 
determinableness  and  its  perfect  innocence.  And,  at  such  a 
moment,  our  feeling  is  too  plainly  mingled  with  a  certain 
sadness,  to  allow  us  to  mistake  its  source.  The  child  repre- 
sents the  bias  and  determination,  we  represent  the  fulfilment. 


19° 


SCHILLER 


which  forever  remains  infinitely  far  behind  the  former.  Hence 
the  child  is  an  actualization  of  the  ideal,  not  indeed  of  one  ful- 
filled, but  of  one  proposed ;  and  so  it  is  by  no  means  the  ap- 
pearance of  its  neediness  and  limits  which  moves  us,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  the  appearance  of  its  free  and  pure  power,  its  in- 
tegrity, its  infinity.  For  this  reason,  a  child  will  be  a  holy 
object  to  the  man  of  morality  and  feeling,  that  is,  an  object 
which,  by  the  magnitude  of  an  idea,  abolishes  every  actual 
magnitude,  and  which  wins  again  in  rich  measure  from  the 
estimation  of  the  reason  all  that  it  may  lose  in  the  estimation 
of  the  understanding. 

Out  of  this  very  contradiction  between  the  judgment  of  the 
reason  and  of  the  understanding,  proceeds  the  entirely  pecul- 
iar phenomenon  of  mixed  feeling,  which  a  naive  disposition 
excites  in  us.  It  unites  childlike  with  childish  simplicity.  By 
the  latter,  it  gives  the  understanding  an  idea  of  weakness,  and 
produces  that  laughter  by  which  we  make  known  our  (theo- 
retic) superiority.  But  as  soon  as  we  have  reason  to  believe 
that  childish  simplicity  is  at  the  same  time  childlike,  and  that 
consequently  its  source  is  not  folly,  or  imbecility,  but  a  loftier 
(practical)  strength,  a  heart  full  of  innocence  and  truth,  which 
makes  ashamed,  by  its  internal  greatness,  the  mediation  of 
art — then  that  triumph  of  the  understanding  is  over,  and  a 
jest  at  simpleness  passes  over  into  admiration  of  simplicity. 
■We  feel  ourselves  compelled  to  respect  the  object  at  which  we 
previously  laughed,  and,  while  casting  a  look  into  ourselves, 
to  lament  that  we  are  not  like  it.  Thus  arises  the  entirely 
peculiar  appearance  of  a  feeling,  in  which  are  blended  gay  de- 
rision, reverence,  and  sadness.-     The  naive  demands  that  nature 

'  Kant,  in  a  note  to  the  "  Analysis  of  cated,  blameless  nature,  which  we  were 
the  Sublime  "  ("  Critique  of  Esthetic  not  at  all  prepared  to  meet,  and  which, 
Judgment,"  p.  225,  1st  Ed.),  in  like  man-  it  would  seem,  was  not  meant  to  be 
ncr  distinguishes  this  threefold  compo-  exposed.  And  because  the  a;sthetic,  hut 
sition  in  the  perception  of  the  naive,  but  false,  show,  which  commonly  counts  for 
he  gives  another  explanation  of  it.  much  in  our  iudgment,  here  suddenly 
"  Something  of  both  (the  animal  feel-  vanishes,  and  because,  so  to  speak,  our 
JHg  of  pleasure,  and  tlic  spiritual  feel-  waggery  is  exposed,  this  brings  out  in 
in^  of  respect)  united,  is  found  in  two  opposite  directions,  a  mental  agita- 
naivctc,  which  is  the  outbreak  of  the  tion,  wliich  at  the  same  time  gives  the 
originally  natural  uprightness  of  luiman-  body  a  salutary  shaking.  Rut  because 
ity  against  the  art  of  dissimulation  be-  something,  which  is  infinitely  better 
come  a  second  nature.  We  laugh  at  the  than  all  assumed  style,  that  is,  mental 
simplicity  which  does  not  yet  under-  sincerity  (at  least  the  tendency  there- 
stand  how  to  dissimulate,  and  still  we  to),  is  not  yet  fntirely_  extinguislicd  in 
enjoy  that  natural  simplicity  which  dis-  human  nature — this  it  is  which  mingles 
appoints  such  arts.  If  we  expected  the  seriousness  and  regard  in  this  play  of 
cvery-day  style  of  an  affected  cxprcs-  the  jutlgment.  Rut  since  the  phcnome- 
sion  that  is  prudently  established  upon  nrm  l.nsts  only  for  a  little  while,  and 
eestlietic  show,  behold,  it  is  unsophiBtt-  the  veil  of  dissimulation  is  soon  again 


UPON    NAiVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY  191 

should  bear  away  the  victory  over  art,'^  whether  it  liappen  with- 
out the  knowledge  and  will  of  the  person,  or  with  his  full  con- 
sciousness. In  the  first  case  it  is  the  naive  of  surprise,  and 
delights:  in  the  other  case  it  is  the  naive  of  disposition,  and 
moves. 

In  the  naive  of  surprise,  the  person  must  be  morally  able  to 
deny  nature ;  in  the  naive  of  disposition  he  need  not  be  so,  and 
yet,  if  it  would  afifect  us  as  naivete,  we  need  not  imagine  him 
as  physically  unable  to  do  so.  Hence  the  talk  and  actions  of 
children  give  us  the  pure  impression  of  naivete,  only  so  long 
as  we  do  not  remember  their  incapacity  for  art,  but  merely 
regard  the  contrast  of  their  naturalness  with  the  art  in  us.  A 
childishness,  where  it  is  no  longer  expected,  is  naive,  and  there- 
fore that  cannot  be  ascribed,  in  strictness  of  meaning,  to  actual 
childhood. 

But  in  the  cases,  both  of  naivete  of  surprise  and  that  of  dis- 
position, nature  must  be  right,  but  art  be  wrong. 

The  conception  of  the  naive  is  only  completed  by  this  final 
definition.  Feeling  is  also  nature,  and  the  rule  of  propriety 
is  something  artificial ;  but  yet  the  victory  of  feeling  over  pro- 
priety is  nothing  less  than  naive.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
same  feeling  overcomes  artifice,  false  propriety,  dissimulation, 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  call  that  naive.*     It  is  necessary,  then, 

drawn  before  it,  a  regret,  which  is  an  deterioration  we  are  reminded  by  such 
emotion  of  tenderness,  mingles  also  a  circumstance.  It  is  too  plainly  a 
with  our  feeling;  and  it  does  not  re-  moral  sadness,  which  must  have  a  no- 
fuse  to  unite  as  play  with  a  hearty  bier  object  than  the  physical  weakness 
laugh,  at  the  same  time  relieving  the  with  which  smcerity  is  threatened  in 
embarrassment  of  the  person  who  is  the  customary  routine  of  life;  and  this 
the  object  of  it,  because  he  has  not  yet  object  cannot  well  be  other  than  the 
learned  the  way  of  the  world."  I  must  decay  of  truth  and  simplicity  in  hu- 
confess  the  explanation  does  not  entire-  manity.  ^  .  ,  ,  ,  .  „ 
ly  satisfy  me,  and  particularly  for  this  *  Perhaps  I  should  briefiy  say,  truth 
reason,  that  it  asserts  something  of  over  dissimulation.  But  the  idea  of 
the  naive  in  general,  which  is  chiefly  the  naive  appears  to  me  to  include  still 
true   of   one   species,   the   naive   of   sur-  something    more,    while    the    simplicity 

frise,  of  which  I  shall  afterwards  speak.  which  prevails  over  artifice,  and  the 
t  certainly  excites  laughter,  when  any-  natural  freedom  which  conquers  stiff- 
body  exposes  himself  by  naivete;  and  ness  and  constraint,  excite  in  us  a  sim- 
in  many  cases  this  laughter  may  result  ilar  perception. 

from    a    previous    expectation    which    is  *  A   child   is   ill   bred   if  it   resists  the 

resolved  into  nothing.     But  also  naivete  precepts  of  a  good  education  from   de- 

of   the   noblest   kind,   the   naive   of   dis-  sire,  caprice,  or  passion:  but  it  is  naive, 

position,   always  excites  a  smile,  which  if  it   releases  itself  by  virtue   of  a   free 

can  hardly  have  for  its  cause  an  expec-  and  healthy  nature,  from  the  mannerism 

tation  resolved  into  nothing;    but   it  is  of  an   unwise  education,   from   the   stiff 

generally  to   be  explained   only  by   the  postures  of  the  dancing-master,  and  the 

contrast    of    a    certain    demeanor    with  like.     The   same   also   occurs   with   that 

the  once  assumed  and  expected   forms.  loosely    defined    naivete    which    results 

I   also  doubt,   whether  the   pity,   which  from    the   transmission   of   humanity   to 

is  blended   in  our  feeling  at   the   naive  the    irrational.      If    the    weeds    got    the 

of  the  latter  kind,  relates  to  the   naive  upper  hand  in  a  badly  kept  parden._  no 

person,  and  not  rather  to  ourselves,  or  one   would   find   the    appearance    naive; 

rather  to  mankind  in  general,  of  whose  but  there  is  something  positively  naive 


192 


SCHILLER 


that  nature  should  triumph  over  art  not  as  a  dynamic  magni- 
tude, by  its  blind  force,  but  as  a  moral  magnitude,  by  its  form. 
The  impropriety,  and  not  the  insufficing  of  art,  must  have  af- 
forded the  victory  to  nature ;  for  nothing  which  results  from 
deficiency  can  command  respect.  It  is  true,  that  in  the  naive 
of  surprise  it  is  always  the  overplus  of  feeling  and  a  deficiency 
of  restraint  which  causes  nature  to  be  recognized :  but  this  de- 
ficiency and  that  overplus  by  no  means  create  the  naive,  for 
they  oniy  afford  an  opportunity  for  nature  to  follow  unim- 
peded its  moral  capacity,  that  is,  the  law  of  harmony. 

The  naive  of  surprise  can  only  appertain  to  man,  and  to  man 
alone,  in  so  far  as  at  that  moment  he  is  no  longer  pure  and 
innocent  nature.  It  presupposes  a  will  which  does  not  har- 
monize with  that  which  nature  does  spontaneously.  Such  a 
person,  if  rendered  conscious  of  it,  will  be  frightened  at  him- 
self: on  the  contrary,  he  who  is  naive  by  disposition,  will  be 
surprised  at  men  and  at  their  astonishment.  Then,  as  the 
truth  does  not  here  recognize  the  personal  and  moral  char- 
acter, but  only  the  natural  character  released  by  feeling,  so  we 
attribute  no  merit  to  the  man  for  his  uprightness,  and  our 
laughter,  which  is  restrained  by  no  personal  veneration  for  him, 
is  merited  sport.  But  as  here  also  it  is  the  uprightness  of  nat- 
ure which  breaks  through  the  veil  of  falseness,  a  satisfaction 
of  a  higher  kind  unites  with  the  mischievous  pleasure  at  hav- 
ing surprised  a  man.  For  nature,  in  opposition  to  artifice, 
and  truth,  in  opposition  to  deception,  must  always  excite  re- 
spect. We  feel,  then,  in  the  naive  of  surprise  also,  an  actual 
moral  pleasure,  though  not  from  a  moral  character.^ 

It  is  true,  we  always  respect  nature  in  the  naive  of  surprise, 
since  we  must  respect  the  truth.  On  the  contrary,  we  respect 
the  person  in  the  naive  of  disposition,  and  then  we  enjoy  not 
only  a  moral  pleasure,  but  also  at  a  moral  object.     In  the  one 

when   the   free   growth    of  outspreadinp;  impression.      I?y    naivete    of    this    kind 

branches    destroys    the    laborious    work  even  a  crime  can  be  detected,  but  then 

of  the  shears  in  a  French  garden.     And  we  have  neither  the  guiet  nor  the  leisure 

80  if  is  not  at  all  naive  when  a  trained  to  direct  our   attention   to   the   form  of 

horse    repeats   his    lesson    badly    out    of  the  detection:    and  aversion  for  the  per- 

natural  fatness,   but  there  is  somcthine  sonal  character  absorbs  all  our  satisfac- 

naivc  when  he  forgets  it  out  of  natural  tion   at  the  nature.     And  as  a  revolted 

freedom.  fcclinR  steals  the  moral  pleasure  at  the 

"  As  the  naive  depends  only  upon  the  iipriRhtncss   of   nature,    as   soon    as   nai- 

form    in_  which     something    is    said    or  vete    gives   knowledge   of   a   crime,    just 

done,  this  property  disappears,  as  soon  so  does  an  excited  compassion  destroy 

as   the   thing    itself,    either    through    its  our  mischievous  pleasure,  as  soon  as  we 

causes   or   through   its   cfTecfs,   makes  a  see  anybody  placed  in  peril  by  his  nai- 

prcponderating  or  indeed  contradictory  vet6. 


UPON   NAIVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY  193 

as  in  the  other  case  nature  is  right,  so  that  she  speaks  the 
truth;  but  in  the  latter  case  nature  is  not  only  right,  but  the 
person  is  also  worthy  of  respect.  In  the  first  case  the  upright- 
ness of  nature  always  redounds  to  the  shame  of  the  person,  be- 
cause it  is  involuntary ;  in  the  second  it  always  redounds  to  his 
merit,  even  supposing  that  he  incurs  odium  by  what  it  ex- 
presses. 

We  ascribe  a  naive  disposition  to  a  man,  if  in  his  judgments 
of  things,  he  overlooks  their  artificial  and  forced  relations,  and 
adheres  only  to  simple  nature.  We  demand  from  him  all  the 
judgments  that  can  be  made  within  the  limits  of  healthy  nat- 
ure; and  we  completely  discharge  him  only  from  that  which 
presupposes  a  separation  from,  at  least  a  knowledge  of,  nature, 
whether  in  feeling  or  in  thought. 

If  a  father  tells  his  child  that  this  or  that  man  is  pining  in 
poverty,  and  the  child  hastens  to  carry  to  the  man  his  father's 
purse  of  gold,  the  action  is  naive,  for  healthy  nature  acts  out 
of  the  child :  and  it  would  be  perfectly  right  so  to  proceed  in  a 
world  where  healthy  nature  rules.  He  only  regards  the  need 
and  the  nearest  method  of  satisfying  it:  such  an  extension  of 
the  right  of  property  whereby  a  part  of  humanity  are  left  to 
perish,  is  not  founded  in  simple  nature.  The  action  of  the 
child,  then,  is  a  rebuke  of  the  actual  world,  and  our  heart  also 
confesses  it  by  the  satisfaction  which  the  action  causes  it  to 
feel. 

If  a  man  without  knowledge  of  the  world,  but  otherwise  of 
good  capacity,  confesses  his  secrets  to  another,  who  betrays 
him — but  who  knows  how  to  artfully  dissimulate — and  by  this 
very  candor  lends  him  the  means  of  doing  him  an  injury,  we 
find  it  naive.  We  laugh  at  him,  but  yet  we  cannot  resist  for 
that  reason  highly  prizing  him.  For  his  confidence  in  the 
other  results  from  the  honesty  of  his  own  intentions :  at  least 
he  is  naive  only  so  far  as  that  is  the  case. 

Hence  the  naive  of  reflection  can  never  be  a  property  of  cor- 
rupted men,  but  can  only  belong  to  children  and  men  with 
childlike  dispositions.  The  latter  often  act  and  think  naively 
in  the  most  artificial  relations  of  the  great  world.  Out  of  their 
own  fine  humanity  they  forget  that  they  have  to  do  with  a 
corrupted  world,  and  they  demean  themselves  at  the  courts  of 
kings  with  an  ingenuous  innocence  only  to  be  found  among 
^  race  of  shepherds,. 


194  SCHILLER 

Now  it  is  not  so  easy  always  correctly  to  distinguish  childish 
from  childlike  innocence,  since  there  are  actions  which  waver 
between  the  extreme  limits  of  both,  and  which  actually  leave 
us  in  doubt,  whether  we  ought  to  laugh  at  simpleness  or  rev- 
erence a  noble  simplicity.  A  very  remarkable  instance  of  this 
kind  is  found  in  the  political  history  of  Pope  Adrian  VI,  which 
j  Schrockh  has  described  for  us  with  the  thoroughness  and  prag- 
matic truth  peculiar  to  himself.  This  pope,  a  Netherlander  by 
birth,  administered  the  pontificate  at  a  critical  moment  for  the 
hierarchy,  when  an  embittered  party  exposed  without  mercy 
the  weak  points  in  the  Roman  Church,  and  the  adverse  party 
was  deeply  interested  to  conceal  them.  What  the  truly  naive 
character,  if  such  a  one  ever  strayed  into  the  holy  chair  of 
Peter,  would  have  to  do  in  this  case,  is  not  the  question :  but 
rather,  how  far  such  a  naivete  of  disposition  might  be  com- 
patible with  the  function  of  a  pope.  This,  by  the  way,  was 
something  which  by  no  means  embarrassed  the  predecessors 
and  followers  of  Adrian.  With  perfect  uniformity  they  ad- 
hered to  the  Romish  system  once  for  all  accepted,  nowhere  to 
concede  anything.  But  Adrian  really  had  the  simple  charac- 
ter of  his  nation  and  the  innocence  of  his  former  rank.  He 
was  elevated  from  the  narrow  sphere  of  the  student  to  his  ex- 
alted post,  and  had  never  been  false  to  the  simplicity  of  that 
character  on  the  eminence  of  his  new  dignity.  The  abuses  in 
the  Church  disturbed  him,  and  he  was  much  too  honest  openly 
to  dissimulate  his  private  convictions.  In  conformity  to  such 
a  mood  he  suffered  himself,  in  the  instruction  with  which  he 
furnished  his  legate  to  Germany,  to  fall  into  confessions,  be- 
fore unheard  of  from  any  pope,  and  to  flatly  impugn  the  prin- 
ciples of  this  court.  Among  other  things  it  says :  "  We  know 
well  that  for  many  years  past  much  that  is  odious  has  been 
perpetrated  in  this  holy  chair:  no  wonder  if  the  sickness  has 
been  transmitted  from  the  head  to  the  members,  from  the  pope 
to  the  prelates.  We  have  all  fallen  away,  and  for  a  long  time 
past  there  has  not  been  one  of  us  who  has  done  a  good  thing, 
no,  not  one."  Again,  elsewhere,  he  enjoins  the  legate  to  de- 
clare in  his  name,  "  that  he,  Adrian,  cannot  be  blamed  on  ac- 
count of  that  which  happened  through  former  popes,  and  that 
such  excesses  had  always  displeased  him,  even  when  he  filled 
an  inferior  station,"  etc.     We  can  easily  imagine  what  recep- 


UPON    NAiVE    AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY  195 

tion  the  Roman  clergy  gave  to  such  naivete  on  the  part  of 
the  pope.  The  least  which  they  imputed  to  him  was  that  he 
had  betrayed  the  church  to  the  heretics.  Now  this  highly  im- 
politic measure  of  the  pope  would  compel  our  whole  respect 
and  admiration,  if  we  could  only  be  convinced  that  he  was  actu- 
ally naive,  that  is,  that  he  had  been  forced  to  it  only  through 
the  natural  truth  of  his  character,  without  any  regard  to  the 
possible  consequences,  and  that  he  would  have  done  it  none 
the  less  if  he  had  anticipated  the  whole  extent  of  its  unseem- 
liness. But  we  have  some  grounds  for  believing  that  he  did 
not  deem  this  step  so  very  impolitic,  and  in  his  innocence  went 
so  far  as  to  hope  that  he  might  gain  a  very  important  advan- 
tage for  the  church  by  his  condescension  toward  the  opposi- 
tion. He  not  only  presumed  that  as  an  honest  man  he  ought 
to  take  this  step,  but  to  be  able  also  as  pope  to  justify  it :  and 
while  he  forgot  that  the  most  artificial  of  all  structures  could 
actually  be  sustained  by  a  systematic  denial  of  the  truth,  he 
committed  the  unpardonable  error  of  using  precepts  in  a  posi- 
tion completely  the  reverse  of  those  natural  relations  in  which 
they  might  have  been  valid.  This  certainly  modifies  our  judg- 
ment seriously :  and  although  we  cannot  withhold  our  respect 
from  the  honesty  of  heart,  out  of  which  that  action  flowed,  it 
is  not  a  little  weakened  by  the  reflection  that  nature  had  in 
art,  and  the  heart  in  the  head,  a  feeble  rival. 

That  is  not  a  true  genius  which  is  not  naive.  Nothing  but 
its  naivete  makes  it  genius ;  and  what  it  is  in  taste  and  intel- 
lect it  cannot  contradict  in  its  morality.  Unacquainted  with 
rules,  the  crutches  of  weakness  and  the  taskmasters  of  per- 
versity, guided  only  by  nature  or  by  instinct,  its  guardian  an- 
gel, it  passes  tranquilly  and  safely  through  all  the  snares  of  a 
vicious  taste,  in  which  the  pseudo-genius  is  inevitably  caught, 
unless  it  is  acute  enough  to  anticipate  them  from  afar.  It  is 
only  granted  to  genius  to  be  always  at  home  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  familiar,  and  to  extend,  without  transgressing,  nature. 
It  is  true  the  greatest  genius  now  and  then  commits  the  latter 
fault,  but  only  because  it  also  has  its  moments  of  fantasy,  when 
protecting  nature  leaves  it :  only  because  the  force  of  example 
wins  it,  or  the  corrupt  taste  of  its  age  seduces  it. 

Genius  must  solve  the  most  complicated  problems  with  un- 
pretending simplicity  and  skill.    The  egg  of  Columbus  is  a 


19^  SCHILLER 

sample  of  every  method  of  true  spirit.  It  legitimates  itself  as 
genius  only  by  triumphing  through  simplicity  over  the  most 
factitious  art.  It  proceeds  not  according  to  familiar  principles, 
but  by  impulses  and  feelings.  But  its  impulses  are  sugges- 
tions of  a  god — ^all  which  healthy  nature  does,  is  divine — and 
its  feelings  are  laws  for  all  ages  and  for  every  race  of  men. 

The  childlike  character  which  genius  stamps  upon  its  works, 
it  also  manifests  in  its  manners  and  its  private  life.  It  is  chaste, 
because  nature  is  always  so :  but  it  is  not  decent,  because  de- 
cency is  only  native  to  depravity.  It  is  intelligent,  for  nature 
can  never  be  the  opposite ;  but  it  is  not  cunning,  for  only  art 
can  be  so.  It  is  true  to  its  character  and  its  inclinations,  but 
not  so  much  because  it  has  principles,  as  because  nature  al- 
ways returns  through  every  vacillation  to  its  first  position,  al- 
ways restores  the  old  necessity.  It  is  modest,  even  bashful, 
because  genius  itself  is  always  a  mystery,  but  it  is  not  anxious, 
because  it  does  not  know  the  perils  of  the  road  on  which  it 
travels.  We  know  little  of  the  private  life  of  the  greatest 
geniuses,  but  even  that  little  which  has  been  preserved,  for 
example,  concerning  Sophocles,  Archimedes,  Hippocrates, 
among  the  ancients,  and  Ariosto,  Dante  and  Tasso,  Raphael, 
Albert  Diirer,  Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  Fielding,  Sterne,  and 
others  of  modern  times,  confirms  this  assertion. 

And  even,  a  fact  which  seems  to  present  for  greater  diffi- 
culty, the  great  statesman  and  general  will  exhibit  a  naive 
character,  as  soon  as  their  genius  makes  them  great.  Among 
the  ancients,  I  will  only  here  allude  to  Epaminondas  and  Julius 
Caesar,  and  to  Henry  IV  of  France,  Gustavus  Adolphus  of 
Sweden,  and  Peter  the  Great,  among  the  moderns.  The  Duke 
of  Marlborough,  Turenne,  Vendome,  all  display  this  charac- 
ter. And  in  the  other  sex,  nature  has  indicated  her  highest 
perfection  of  naivete.  Feminine  coquetry  strives  for  nothing 
so  much  as  for  the  appearance  of  naivete :  proof  enough,  if  we 
bad  no  other,  that  the  chief  power  of  the  sex  rests  upon  this 
quality.  But  since  the  prevalent  principles  of  female  educa- 
tion are  in  lasting  opposition  to  this  character,  it  is  as  hard  for 
the  woman  morally,  ^s  for  the  man  intellectually,  to  maintain 
that  noble  gift  of  nature  with  the  advantages  bestowed  by  gen- 
erous culture.  The  woman  who  unites  this  naivete  of  manners 
with  a  demeanor  appropriate  to  the  world  merits  our  rever- 


UPON   NAIVE    AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY  197 

ence  as  much  as  the  scholar  who  combines  a  genial  freedom 
of  thought  with  all  the  severity  of  the  schools. 

A  naive  expression  necessarily  flows  out  of  naive  reflection, 
both  in  words  and  gestures :  and  it  is  the  most  important  ele- 
ment of  grace.  Genius  expresses  thus  naively  its  sublimest 
and  deepest  thoughts:  they  are  oracles  from  the  mouth  of  a 
child.  While  common-sense,  always  afraid  of  error,  nails  its 
words  and  conceptions  upon  the  cross  of  logic  and  grammar, 
while  it  is  hard  and  stifif  in  order  to  be  definite,  multiplies  words 
lest  it  say  too  much,  and  prefers  to  extract  all  the  force  and 
keenness  from  its  thought,  from  dread  of  being  inconsiderate, 
genius,  with  a  single  happy  dash  of  the  pencil,  gives  to  its 
thought  a  firm,  forever  definite,  and  yet  flowing  outline.  If,  on 
the  one  hand,  the  symbol  and  the  thing  symbolized  remain  for- 
ever foreign  and  heterogeneous,  on  the  other,  the  speech  issues 
from  the  thought  as  by  an  inward  necessity,  and  is  so  entirely 
one  with  it,  that  the  spirit  seems  exposed  even  under  its  ma- 
terial veil.  In  composition,  it  is  expression  of  this  kind,  where 
the  symbol  entirely  vanishes  in  the  thing  symbolized,  and 
where  the  language  still  leaves  the  thought  which  it  expressed 
naked,  while  another  never  can  present  without  at  the  same 
time  conceaHng  it,  that  we  style  by  eminence  spirited  and 
genial. 

Innocence  of  heart  expresses  itself  freely  and  naturally  in 
daily  life,  like  genius  in  its  works  of  thought.  It  is  notorious 
that  in  social  life  a  man  eschews  simplicity  and  severe  integrity 
of  expression  in  the  same  proportion  as  he  lacks  purity  of  in- 
tention :  and  where  ofifence  is  so  readily  incurred,  and  the  im- 
agination so  easily  corrupted,  a  constrained  demeanor  is  a  ne- 
cessity. Without  being  false,  we  often  say  what  we  do  not 
think :  we  invent  circumlocutions  in  order  to  say  things  which 
can  ofifend  only  a  sickly  vanity,  or  injure  only  a  corrupt  imag- 
ination. An  ignorance  of  these  conventional  laws,  united  with 
natural  uprightness,  which  despises  every  labyrinth  and  show 
of  falsehood  (and  not  rudeness,  which  only  rejects  those  laws 
because  they  incommode  it),  creates  a  naivete  of  expression 
in  intercourse,  which  consists  in  calling  things,  which  we  either 
may  not  designate  at  all  or  only  artfully,  by  their  right  names 
and  in  the  curtest  way.  The  customary  expressions  of  chil- 
dren are  of  this  kind.     They  create  laughter  from  their  con- 


198  SCHILLER 

trast  with  our  customs ;  and  yet  in  our  hearts  we  confess  that 
the  child  is  right. 

It  is  true  that,  strictly  speaking,  a  naive  disposition  can  be 
attributed  to  man  only  as  a  being  not  positively  subject  to  nat- 
ure, though  still  only  so  far  as  pure  nature  really  acts  in  him. 
And  yet,  by  an  effect  of  the  poetizing  imagination,  it  is  often 
transferred  from  the  rational  to  the  irrational.  Thus  we  often 
attribute  a  naive  character  to  an  animal,  a  landscape,  a  build- 
ing, and  to  nature  generally,  in  opposition  to  the  caprice  and 
fantasy  of  man.  But  this  always  demands  that  we  should  sub- 
jectively lend  a  will  to  that  which  has  none,  and  have  regard 
to  its  strict  direction  according  to  necessary  laws.  Dissatis- 
faction at  our  own  ill-exercised  moral  freedom,  and  at  the  lack 
of  moral  harmony  in  our  actions,  easily  induces  that  kind  of 
mood  in  which  we  address  an  irrational  thing  as  a  person,  and 
imagine  its  eternal  uniformity  a  merit,  and  envy  its  tranquil 
tenor,  as  if  it  really  had  to  struggle  with  a  temptation  to  be 
otherwise.  At  such  a  moment  it  jumps  with  our  humor  to  con- 
sider our  prerogative  of  reason  an  evil  and  a  curse,  and  to  deny 
justice  to  our  capacity  and  destiny,  from  a  vivid  sense  of  the 
meagreness  of  our  actual  execution. 

Then  we  see  in  irrational  nature  only  a  more  fortunate  sister, 
who  remained  in  the  maternal  house,  from  which  we  stormed 
fo-th  into  the  distance,  in  the  exuberance  of  our  freedom. 
With  sorrowful  longing  we  yearn  to  be  back  again,  as  soon 
as  we  begin  to  feel  the  oppressiveness  of  culture,  and  to  hear 
in  the  foreign  remoteness  of  art  the  winning  voice  of  the 
mother.  While  we  were  only  nature's  children  we  were  happy 
and  perfect ;  we  became  free  and  ceased  to  be  both.  Hence 
results  a  twofold  and  very  dissimilar  longing  for  nature,  long- 
ing for  her  happiness,  longing  for  her  perfection.  The  loss 
of  the  former  is  lamented  only  by  the  sensuous  man ;  but  the 
moral  man  alone  can  mourn  over  the  loss  of  the  latter. 

Ask  yourself  strictly  then,  sympathizing  friend  of  nature, 
does  your  indolence  pine  for  her  repose?  does  your  offended 
moral  sense  desire  her  harmony?  Ask  yourself  candidly,  does 
art  disgust  you,  and  do  you  take  refuge  in  the  solitude  of  in- 
animate nature  from  the  abuses  of  society?  do  you  abhor  its 
privations,  its  burdens,  its  diffiotilties,  or  its  moral  anarchy,  its 
disorders,  its  caprice?    You  must  meet  the  former  with  jojr 


UPON   NAIVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY  199 

and  courage,  and  your  compensation  must  be  the  very  free- 
dom out  of  which  they  flow.  You  may  well  propose  the  tran- 
quil joy  of  nature  for  your  distant  goal,  but  only  such  as  is  the 
prize  of  your  own  worthiness.  Then  complain  no  longer  of 
the  hardship  of  life,  of  the  inequality  of  conditions,  of  the  stress 
of  circumstances,  of  the  insecurity  of  property,  of  ingratitude, 
oppression,  persecution.  You  must  submit  to  all  the  evils  of 
culture  with  free  resignation,  you  must  respect  them  as  the 
natural  conditions  of  the  only  Good:  you  must  lament  only 
over  its  wickedness,  but  not  with  unmanly  tears.  Much  rather 
care  to  act  purely  amid  those  contaminations,  freely  under  that 
slavery,  firmly  through  that  fickle  mutability,  loyally  through 
that  anarchy.  Do  not  fear  external,  but  internal  confusion: 
strive  for  unity,  but  seek  it  not  in  uniformity:  strive  for  re- 
pose, but  through  the  equipose,  not  through  the  cessation,  of 
your  activity.  That  nature,  which  you  begrudge  to  the  irra- 
tional, deserves  neither  longing  nor  respect.  It  lies  behind 
you:  it  must  forever  lie  behind  you.  When  you  no  longer 
feel  the  ladder  which  upheld  you,  there  remains  for  you  no 
choice  but  to  grasp  the  law  with  free  consciousness  and  voli- 
tion, or  else  to  fall  beyond  deliverance  into  a  fathomless  abyss. 

But  if  you  become  consoled  for  the  loss  of  nature's  happi- 
ness, then  let  her  perfection  be  your  heart's  ideal.  If  you  step 
forth  unto  her  from  your  sphere  of  art,  and  see  her  before  you 
in  her  great  tranquillity,  in  her  naive  beauty,  in  her  childlike 
innocence  and  simplicity,  linger  before  the  picture,  cherish  that 
feeling :  it  is  worthy  of  your  noblest  manhood.  Do  not  longer 
indulge  the  wish  or  fancy  to  exchange  with  her,  but  receive  her 
into  yourself,  and  strive  to  wed  her  infinite  superiority  to  your 
own  infinite  prerogative,  and  create  from  that  union  the  divine. 
Let  her  encompass  you  like  a  tender  Idyll,  in  which  you  may 
always  find  yourself  again  out  of  the  distractions  of  art,  from 
which  you  may  gather  new  courage  and  confidence  for  the 
race,  and  kindle  afresh  in  your  heart  the  fiame  of  the  Ideal, 
which  flickers  and  sinks  so  soon  in  the  storms  of  life. 

If  we  call  to  mind  the  beautiful  nature  which  surrounded  the 
ancient  Greeks,  if  we  recollect  how  confidingly  that  people 
could  live  under  their  fortunate  heaven  with  free  nature,  how 
much  nearer  their  conception,  their  sentiment,  their  manners 
lay  to  simple  nature,  and  what  a  true  reflection  of  her  their 


200  SCHILLER 

works  of  fancy  are,  it  must  seem  strange  to  observe  that  we 
find  so  few  traces  among  them  of  that  sentimental  interest  with 
which  we  moderns  can  cHng  to  natural  scenes  and  characters. 
It  is  true,  the  Greek  is  in  the  highest  degree  strict,  true,  cir- 
cumstantial, in  his  description  of  nature,  but  yet  not  a  whit 
more  and  with  no  heartier  sympathy,  than  he  is  also  in  the 
description  of  an  array,  a  shield,  a  suit  of  armor,  a  domestic 
utensil,  or  of  any  product  of  mechanics.  He  seems  to  make 
no  distinction  in  his  love  for  the  object,  between  that  which 
is  in  itself  and  that  which  is  through  art  and  human  will.  Nat- 
ure seems  to  interest  his  intellect  and  curiosity  more  than  his 
moral  sense :  he  does  not  cling  to  her  as  we  do,  with  heartiness, 
with  sensibility,  with  a  sweet  sadness.  And  even  when  he  per- 
sonifies and  deifies  her  single  manifestations,  and  represents 
their  effects  as  actions  of  a  free  being,  he  abolishes  in  her  that 
tranquil  necessity,  by  which  precisely  she  is  so  attractive  to  us. 
His  impatient  fancy  bears  him  away  over  her  to  the  drama  of 
human  life.  Nothing  satisfies  him  but  the  free  and  living, 
nothing  but  characters,  actions,  fates,  and  manners.  And 
while  we,  in  certain  moral  moods  of  mind,  could  wish  to  give 
up  the  superiority  of  our  free  volition,  which  causes  us  so  much 
strife  with  ourselves,  so  much  unrest  and  confusion,  for  the 
choiceless  but  tranquil  necessity  of  the  irrational,  the  Greek 
fancy,  precisely  the  reverse,  is  busy  making  human  nature  in- 
choate even  within  the  inanimate  world,  and  giving  influence 
to  will  in  the  province  of  blind  necessity. 

Whence  indeed  this  diversity  of  spirit?  How  comes  it  that 
we  who  are  so  far  surpassed  by  the  ancients  in  everj^hing  that 
is  nature,  can  precisely  here  honor  nature  in  a  higher  sense, 
cling  to  her  with  heartfulness,  and  embrace  even  the  inanimate 
world  with  warmest  sensibility?  It  is  because  with  us  nature 
has  vanished  out  of  humanity,  and  we  meet  her  again  in  her 
truth  only  beyond  the  latter,  in  the  world  of  matter.  It  is  not 
our  greater  conformity  with  nature,  but,  quite  the  contrary,  the 
incongruity  of  our  relations,  conditions,  and  manners,  which 
impels  us  to  procure  in  the  physical  world  that  which  is  hope- 
less in  the  moral  world,  namely,  satisfaction  for  the  growing 
impulse  for  truth  and  simplicity,  which  lies  incorruptible  and 
incfTarcnblc  in  all  human  hearts,  like  the  moral  disposition 
whence  it  flows.     It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  feeling  with 


UPON   NAIVE   AND  SENTIMENTAL   POETRY         201 

which  we  cHng  to  nature  is  so  nearly  akin  to  the  feeling  which 
laments  the  vanished  age  of  childhood  and  of  childlike  inno- 
cence. Our  childhood  is  the  only  unmutilated  nature  which 
we  still  find  in  cultivated  manhood :  then  it  is  no  wonder  if 
every  vestige  of  external  nature  conducts  us  back  to  our  child- 
hood. 

It  was  very  different  with  the  ancient  Greeks.®  Their  cult- 
ure had  not  so  far  degenerated  that  nature  was  abandoned. 
The  whole  structure  of  their  social  life  was  based  upon  feelings, 
and  not  upon  a  composition  of  art :  their  mythology  itself  was 
the  suggestion  of  a  naive  sentiment,  the  creation  of  a  joyous 
iancy,  and  not  of  a  refining  reason,  like  the  religion  of  later 
nations.  Then  as  the  Greek  had  not  lost  the  nature  in  hu- 
manity, he  could  not  be  surprised  by  her  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  latter:  and  so  he  could  have  no  pressing  necessity  for  ob- 
jects in  which  he  might  recover  her.  In  unison  with  himself, 
and  happy  in  the  feeling  of  his  humanity,  he  fain  held  silently 
to  that  as  his  maximum,  and  approached  all  else  with  diffi- 
culty :  while  we,  not  in  unison  with  ourselves,  and  unhappy  in 
our  experiences  of  humanity,  have  no  pressing  interest  except 
to  escape  from  it,  and  to  thrust  from  our  vision  a  form  so  un- 
successful. 

The  feeling  to  which  we  here  allude,  is  not  then,  that  which 
the  ancients  had :  it  is  rather  identical  with  that  which  we  have 
for  the  ancients.  They  perceived  naturally :  we  perceive  the 
natural.  Without  doubt,  the  feeling  which  filled  Homer's  soul 
when  he  let  his  celestial  swineherd  entertain  Ulysses  was  quite 
different  from  that  which  moved  the  soul  of  the  young  Wer- 
ther,  when  he  read  the  passage  after  a  tedious  company.  Our 
sentiment  for  nature  is  like  the  feeling  of  the  invalid  for  health. 

In  the  same  degree  that  nature  vanished  out  of  human  life 
as  experience  and  as  the  (active  and  perceptive)  subject,  we 
see  her  appearing  in  the  poetic  world  as  idea  and  as  object. 

•But  with  the  Greeks  only:    for  just  ure   (in  opposition  to   man)   appears  in 

such  a  lively  animation  and  such  a  rich  the   songs   of   this   poet   much    more  as 

fulness    of    human    life    as    surrounded  an  object  of  sentiment.     But  Ossian  too 

the   Greek,   were   requisite,   in   order  to  laments    a    falling    away    of    humanity f 

transfer  life  into   the   lifeless   also,   and  and    however    small    was    the    circle    oi 

to   pursue   with   that   zeal   the  image  of  his   people's   culture   and    their   corrup* 

humanity.     Ossian's   human   world,   for  tions,  its  experience  was  still  lively  and 

example,    was   needy   and    monotonous:  impressive  enough,  to  repel  the  singer, 

the    inanimate    around    him    was    great,  with    his    tenderness    and    purity,    back 

colossal,  mighty.     Thus   it  was  impera-  towards  the  inanimate,  and  to  pour  over 

live,    and    maintained    its    rights    over  his   songs   that    elegiac    tone   which   we 

•nan  himself:    and  hence  inanimate  nat-  find  so  moving  and  attractive. 


2oa  SCHILLER 

That  nation  which  has  proceeded  furthest  both  in  unnature  and 
in  reflection  upon  it  must  have  been  the  first  to  be  most 
strongly  moved  by  the  phenomenon  of  naivete,  and  to  give  to 
it  a  name.  This  nation,  so  far  as  I  know,  was  the  French. 
But  perception  of,  and  interest  in,  the  naive,  is  naturally  much 
earlier,  and  dates  from  the  very  commencement  of  moral  and 
aesthetic  depravation.  This  change  in  the  perceptive  mode  is 
extremely  striking  even  so  early  as  Euripides;  for  example, 
when  we  compare  him  with  his  predecessors  and  with  yEschy- 
lus  especially,  and  yet  that  poet  was  the  favorite  of  his  age. 
The  same  revolution  is  apparent  also  among  the  old  historians. 
Horace,  the  poet  of  a  cultivated  and  corrupted  age,  extols 
tranquil  happiness  in  his  Tibur ;  and  we  may  designate  him  as 
the  true  founder  of  this  sentimental  school  of  poetry,  while  as 
a  model  he  has  not  yet  been  surpassed.  We  also  find  traces  of 
this  perception  in  Propertius,  Vergil,  and  others,  but  few  in 
Ovid,  who  lacked  heartfulness,  and  who  mourns,  in  his  exile 
at  Tomi,  the  loss  of  that  happiness  which  Horace  so  readily 
dispenses  with  in  his  Tibur. 

Poets  are  universally,  by  their  very  conception,  the  guar- 
dians of  nature.  Where  they  can  no  longer  be  so,  and  already 
feel  in  themselves  the  destructive  influence  of  capricious  and 
artificial  forms,  or  at  least  have  had  to  struggle  with  it,  they 
will  then  appear  as  the  witnesses  and  as  the  avengers  of  nat- 
ure. They  will  either  be,  or  they  will  seek,  a  lost  nature.  Thus 
two  very  different  schools  of  poetry  arise,  which  cover  and 
exhaust  the  whole  province  of  that  art.  All  who  are  really 
poets  will  belong  either  to  the  naive  or  to  the  sentimental 
school,  according  to  the  constitution  of  the  age  in  which  they 
flourish,  or  as  contingent  circumstances  affect  their  general 
culture  and  predominating  neutral  tone. 

The  early  poet  of  a  naive  and  spiritual  world,  and  he,  in  an 
age  of  artificial  culture,  who  is  nearest  to  him,  is  austere  and 
coy,  like  the  virgin  Diana  in  her  forests.  With  no  familiar 
manners,  he  eludes  the  heart  that  seeks  him,  and  the  longing 
that  would  embrace  him.  The  homely  truthfulness  with 
which  he  handles  an  object  often  seems  like  insensibility.  The 
object  possesses  him  entirely :  his  heart  does  not  lie,  like  a 
base  metal,  just  beneath  the  surface,  but  will  be  sought  after 
in  the  depths,  like  gold.     He  stands  behind  his  work  like  the 


UPON   NAIVE   AND  SENTIMENTAL   POETRY         203 

Infinite  behind  the  structure  of  the  world.  He  is  the  work  and 
the  work  is  him.  We  must  first  be  unworthy  of  the  work, 
or  unequal  to  it,  or  weary,  only  to  ask  for  him. 

So  appears,  for  example.  Homer  among  the  ancients  and 
Shakespeare  among  the  moderns;  two  very  different  natures, 
separated  by  the  immeasurable  lapse  of  ages,  but  in  this  par- 
ticular characteristic  completely  one.  When  I  first  became 
acquainted  with  the  latter  poet,  at  a  very  early  age,  I  was 
troubled  at  the  coldness,  the  insensibility,  which  permitted  him 
to  jest  in  the  deepest  pathos,  to  disturb  with  a  clown  the  heart- 
rending scenes  in  "  Hamlet,"  "  King  Lear,"  "  Macbeth,"  and 
others,  which  now  held  him  fast  where  my  feelings  hurried  on, 
and  now  coldly  hastened  forward  where  the  heart  would  so  will- 
ingly have  rested.  Led  by  acquaintance  with  the  later  writers, 
to  seek  for  the  poet  in  the  work,  to  meet  his  heart,  to  reflect 
familiarly  with  him  concerning  his  object,  in  short,  to  contem- 
plate the  object  in  the  subject,  it  was  intolerable  to  me  that 
the  poet  would  nowhere  suffer  contact,  and  never  deign  to  talk 
with  me.  And  for  many  years  he  had  all  my  reverence  and 
my  study  too,  before  I  learned  to  win  his  personality.  I  was 
yet  incapable  of  understanding  nature  at  first  hand.  I  could 
only  tolerate  her  image  reflected  through  the  intellect  and  ad- 
justed by  the  rules;  and  the  sentimental  poets  both  of  the 
French  and  Germans,  from  1750  to  1780,  were  just  the  proper 
subjects  for  that  end.  But  I  am  not  ashamed  of  this  puerile 
judgment,  since  the  mature  critic  passed  a  similar  one,  and  was 
naive  enough  to  publish  it  to  the  world. 

The  same  thing  happened  to  me  with  respect  to  Homer, 
also,  whom  I  knew  at  a  still  later  period.  I  remember  now 
the  remarkable  place  in  the  sixth  book  of  the  "  Iliad,"  where 
Glaucus  and  Diomed  attack  each  other,  and  after  one  recog- 
nizes the  other  as  his  guest,  exchange  presents.  This  affect- 
ing picture  of  the  piety  with  which  the  laws  of  hospitality  were 
observed  in  war  itself,  can  be  matched  v/ith  a  description  of 
knightly  magnanimity  in  Ariosto,  where  two  knights  and 
rivals,  Ferran  and  Rinaldo,  the  one  a  Saracen,  the  other  a 
Christian,  make  peace  after  being  covered  with  wounds  in  a 
violent  conflict,  and  mount  the  same  horse  in  order  to  seek  and 
bring  back  the  flying  AngeHca.  Different  as  both  examples 
are,  they  still  coincide  in  the  effect  upon  our  hearts,  since  both 


204  SCHILLER 

depict  the  beautiful  triumph  of  manners  over  passion,  and  af- 
fect us  with  their  naivete  of  disposition.  But  how  differently 
do  the  poets  undertake  the  description  of  this  same  action.  Ar- 
iosto,  the  citizen  of  a  later  age,  whose  manners  had  deteriorated 
in  simplicity,  cannot  conceal  his  own  admiration  and  emotion 
at  the  relation  of  this  event.  The  feeling  of  the  remoteness  of 
these  manners  from  those  which  characterize  his  age  over- 
powers him.  He  abandons  at  once  the  delineation  of  the  ob- 
ject and  appears  in  his  own  person.  The  beautiful  stanzas  are 
well  known,  and  have  always  excited  special  admiration : 

"  O  noble  minds,  by  knights  of  old  possess'd! 
Two  faiths  they  knew,  one  love  their  hearts  profess'd: 
And  still  their  limbs  the  smarting  anguish  feel 
Of  strokes  inflicted  by  the  hostile  steel. 
Through  winding  paths  and  lonely  woods  they  go. 
Yet  no  suspicion  their  brave  bosoms  know. 
At  length  the  horse,  with  double  spurring,  drew 
To  where  diverging  ways  appeared  in  view," 

And  now  old  Homer!  Hardly  does  Diomed  learn  from  the 
relation  of  Glaucus,  his  rival,  that  the  latter  is  a  guest  of  his 
family  from  the  father's  times  downward,  when  he  buries  his 
spear  in  the  ground,  talks  cordially  with  him,  and  they  agree 
in  future  to  avoid  each  other  during  battle.  But  hear  Homer 
himself: 

"  Henceforth  let  our  spears 

Avoid  each  other  in  tumultuous  war; 

For  many  Trojans  and  rcnown'd  allies 

Have  I  to  slay,  whom  to  this  arm  some  god 

May  bring,  or  else  my  speed  may  overtake; 

And  many  Greeks  there  are  for  thee  to  slay, 

Whome'er  thou  canst;  but  let  us  arms  exchange, 

That  all  who  see  our  conference  may  know 

We  boast  to  be  hereditary  guests. 

This  said,  both  heroes  leaping  from  their  cars. 

With  mutual  kindness  joined  their  hands  and  pledged 

The  faith  of  friendship!" 

A  modern  poet  (at  least  one  who  is  so  in  the  moral  sense  of 
that  word)  would  have  hardly  waited  until  now,  in  order  to 
testify  his  pleasure  at  the  action.  And  we  should  the  easier 
pardon  him  for  it,  since  our  heart  also  makes  a  pause  in  the 
reading,  and  withdraws  from  the  object,  in  order  to  contem- 


UPON   NAIVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY         205 

plate  itself.  But  no  trace  of  all  this  in  Homer:  he  proceeds 
in  his  barren  truthfulness,  as  if  he  had  announced  an  every-day 
affair,  nay,  as  if  he  bore  no  heart  in  his  bosom : 

"  Then  Saturnian  love 
Exalted  Glaucus*  liberal  mind,  who  gave 
His  golden  for  Tydides'  brazen  arms, 
Although  a  hundred  oxen  his  were  worth, 
And  those  of  Diomed  no  more  than  nine." 

Poets  of  this  na'ive  kind  are  properly  no  longer  in  their  place 
in  an  artificial  age.  In  fact  they  are  hardly  possible  there,  at 
least  only  if  they  run  wild,  and  are  saved  from  the  crippling 
influence  of  their  times  by  a  fortunate  destiny.  They  can  never 
proceed  out  of  society  itself;  but  they  sometimes  appear  be- 
yond its  limits,  yet  rather  as  strangers  who  astonish  us,  and  as 
untamed  children  of  nature  who  scandalize  us.  Beneficial  as 
such  phenomena  are  for  the  artist  who  studies  them,  and  for 
the  genuine  connoisseur  who  knows  how  to  estimate  them, 
they  prosper  little  on  the  whole  with  their  period.  The  seal 
of  ruler  rests  upon  their  brow ;  but  we  prefer  to  be  rocked  and 
carried  by  the  muses.  The  critics,  who  are  the  special  hedge- 
trimmers  of  taste,  hate  them  as  bound-breakers,  and  would  fain 
suppress  them.  For  Homer  himself  need  thank  only  the 
power  of  more  than  a  millennium  of  evidence,  for  the  toleration 
of  these  aesthetic  judges:  it  would  harass  them  not  a  little  to 
maintain  their  rules  against  his  example,  and  his  reputation 
against  their  rules. 

I  said  that  the  poet  either  is  nature,  or  he  will  seek  her.  If 
the  former,  he  is  naive ;  if  the  latter,  he  is  sentimental. 

The  poetic  spirit  is  immortal  and  inalienable  in  humanity: 
it  cannot  fail  except  simultaneously  with  that  and  with  the 
poetic  inclination.  For  when  the  man  removes  himself,  by 
the  freedom  of  his  fancy  and  his  understanding,  from  the  sim- 
plicity, truth,  and  necessity  of  nature,  not  only  the  road  to  her 
remains  forever  open  to  him,  but  a  mightier  and  more  inde- 
structible instinct,  the  moral,  also  impels  him  constantly  back 
to  her;  and  the  poetic  capacity  stands  in  the  closest  relation- 
ship with  this  very  instinct.  That,  then,  is  not  also  lost  to- 
gether with  natural  simplicity,  but  only  operates  in  another 
channel. 

Nature  is  still  the  only  flame  which  nourishes  the  poetic 


2o0  SCHILLER 

spirit ;  it  creates  its  whole  energy  out  of  her  alone,  and  speaks 
to  her  even  in  the  artificial  man  comprised  within  his  culture. 
Every  other  mode  of  operation  is  foreign  to  the  poetic  spirit ; 
hence,  by  the  way,  all  so-called  works  of  humor  are  improperly 
styled  poetic,  although,  guided  by  the  reputation  of  French 
literature,  we  have  for  a  long  time  confounded  the  two  quali- 
ties. It  is  still  nature,  I  say,  that  even  in  the  artificial  condi- 
tions of  culture,  gives  energy  to  the  poetic  spirit;  only  she 
stands  in  a  relation  to  it  entirely  new. 

It  is  evident  that,  while  man  continues  to  be  pure  and  not 
rude  nature,  he  acts  as  an  undivided  sensuous  unity  and  as  a 
harmonizing  whole.  Sense  and  reason,  the  receptive  and  the 
creative  faculty,  are  not  yet  separate  in  their  operations,  much 
less  do  they  stand  in  opposition.  The  perceptions  of  the  one 
are  not  the  formless  sport  of  chance,  the  ideas  of  the  other  are 
not  the  barren  play  of  fancy;  the  former  result  from  the  law 
of  necessity,  the  latter  from  reality.  When  man  has  passed 
into  the  state  of  culture,  and  art  has  lain  her  hand  upon  him, 
that  sensuous  harmony  within  him  is  removed,  and  he  can 
only  express  himself  as  a  moral  unity,  that  is,  as  striving  after 
unity.  The  agreement  between  his  perception  and  reflection, 
which  took  place  in  the  first  condition  actually,  now  exists  only 
ideally.  It  is  no  longer  in  him,  but  out  of  him ;  as  a  thought 
which  has  yet  to  be  realized,  and  no  longer  as  a  fact  of  his  life. 
If  now  we  apply  the  conception  of  poetry,  which  is  none  other 
than  to  give  humanity  its  completest  possible  expression,  to 
both  the  above  conditions,  the  result  is,  that  in  the  condition 
of  natural  simplicity,  where  the  man  still  acts  with  all  his  pow- 
ers at  once  as  a  harmonious  unity,  and  where  therefore  the 
totality  of  his  nature  fully  expresses  itself  in  reality,  the  com- 
pletest possible  imitation  of  the  actual  must  make  the  poet; 
that  on  the  contrary,  in  the  condition  of  culture,  where  that 
harmonious  cooperation  of  his  whole  nature  is  only  an  idea, 
the  elevation  of  reality  to  the  ideal  or  what  amounts  to  the 
same  thing,  the  representation  of  the  ideal,  must  make  the  poet. 
And  these  are  also  the  two  only  possible  modes  in  which  the 
poetic  genius  can  find  expression.  They  are,  as  we  see,  en- 
tirely distinct ;  but  there  is  a  higher  conception  which  com- 
prehends them  both,  and  we  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  this 
conception  coinciding  with  the  idea  of  humanity. 


UPON    NAIVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL   POETRY         207 

This  is  not  the  place  to  pursue  further  this  thought,  which 
only  a  special  discussion  can  place  in  its  full  light.  But  who- 
ever knows  how  to  institute  a  comparison  between  the  ancient 
and  modern  poets/  not  only  according  to  accidental  forms, 
but  according  to  the  spirit,  can  easily  be  satisfied  of  its  truth. 
The  former  affect  us  through  their  nature,  through  sensuous 
truth,  through  living  presence:  the  latter  affect  us  through 
ideas. 

Moreover,  this  path  which  the  modern  poets  travel  is  the 
same  which  man  must  commonly  pursue,  as  well  in  the  part  as 
in  the  whole.  Nature  makes  him  one  with  himself,  art  sep- 
arates and  divides  him,  the  ideal  restores  his  unity.  But  since 
the  ideal  is  an  infinity  which  man  never  reaches,  the  cultivated 
man  can  never  become  perfect  in  his  mode,  as  th^  natural  man 
is  able  to  become  in  his.  Then  he  must  be  infinitely  inferior 
to  the  latter  in  perfection,  if  regard  is  had  only  to  the  relation 
in  which  both  stand  to  their  mode  and  their  maximum.  On 
the  contrary,  if  we  compare  together  the  modes  themselves,  it 
is  evident  that  the  goal  for  which  the  man  strives  through 
culture  is  infinitely  superior  to  that  which  he  attains  through 
nature.  The  one  then  acquires  his  value  through  positive 
attainment  of  a  finite,  the  other  desires  it  through  approxima- 
tion to  an  infinite,  magnitude.  But  since  the  latter  has  only 
degree  and  progress,  the  relative  worth  of  the  cultivated  man 
taken  as  a  whole,  is  never  determinable,  although  when  par- 
tially regarded  he  is  found  in  necessary  inferiority  to  him  in 
whom  nature  acts  in  her  whole  perfection.  But  in  so  far  as 
the  final  goal  of  humanity  can  only  be  reached  through  that 
progress,  and  the  natural  man  can  only  proceed  according  as 
he  cultivates  himself,  and  consequently  passes  over  into  the 
other  condition — there  is  no  question  to  which  of  the  two  the 
preference  is  to  be  awarded,  with  respect  to  that  final  goal. 

What  has  here  been  said  of  the  two  distinct  forms  of  hu- 
manity may  also  be  applied  to  both  those  poetic  forms  cor- 
responding to  them. 

'Perhaps    it    is    not    superfluous    to  style    entirely    pure;     and    there    is   no 

mention,  that  if  the  modern  poets  are  want  of  the  sentimental  among  the  old 

here    set    opposite    to    the    ancient,    we  Latin    and  even  Grecian  poets.    We  fre- 

are  to  understand  not  so  much  the  dif-  quently  find  both  kinds  united,  not  only 

ference    in    time    as    the    difference    in  in  the  same  poet,  but  even  in  tlie  same 

manner.     We  have  also  in  modern  and  work,  as  for  example  in  the  "  Sorrows 

even   in   the  latest   times,    naive   poems  of  Werther."     Productions  of  this  kind 

in   all   classes,   though   no   longer  of   a  will  always  have  a  superior  effect. 


2o8  •  SCHILLER 

For  this  reason  we  ought  not  to  compare  together  ancient 
and  modern — naive  and  sentimental — poets,  or,  if  we  do,  only; 
beneath  a  higher  conception  common  to  both :  for  such  a  one 
there  really  is.  For  certainly,  if  we  have  once  partially  ab- 
stracted the  generic  conception  of  poetry  from  the  old  poets, 
nothing  is  easier,  but  nothing  also  is  more  trivial,  than  to  un- 
dervalue the  moderns  in  comparison.  If  we  only  call  that 
poetry  which  has  uniformly  affected  simple  nature  in  all  times, 
the  only  result  will  be  to  render  dubious  the  name  of  poet  as 
applied  to  moderns  exactly  in  their  highest  and  most  peculiar 
beauty,  because  it  is  precisely  here  that  they  speak  only  to  the 
disciple  of  art,  and  have  nothing  to  say  to  simple  nature.^  The 
richest  contents  will  be  empty  show,  and  the  highest  flight  of 
poetry  will  be  exaggeration  to  him  whose  mind  is  not  already 
prepared  to  pass  out  of  reality  into  the  province  of  ideas.  The 
wish  can  never  occur  to  a  reasonable  man  to  set  a  modern 
side  by  side  with  that  in  which  Homer  is  great ;  and  it  sounds 
laughable  enough  to  hear  a  Milton  or  a  Klopstock  styled  the 
modern  Homer.  And  just  as  little  would  any  ancient  poet, 
least  of  all  Homer,  be  able  to  maintain  a  comparison  with  the 
modern  poet  in  his  characteristics.  The  former,  if  I  may  so' 
express  it,  is  powerful  through  the  art  of  limitation ;  the  latter 
through  the  art  of  illimitation. 

And  from  the  fact  that  the  strength  of  the  ancient  artist  (for 
what  has  here  been  said  of  the  poet,  can  also  be  applied  in  gen- 
eral to  the  liberal  artist,  under  the  restrictions  which  naturally 
occur)  consisted  in  limitation,  we  may  explain  the  high  su- 
periority which  the  plastic  art  of  antiquity  asserts  over  that 
of  modern  times ;  and,  in  general,  the  unequal  relation  of  value 
in  which  modern  poetry  and  modern  plastic  art  stand  to  both 
species  of  art  in  antiquity.  A  work  for  the  eye  finds  its  per- 
fection only  in  limitation :  a  work  for  the  imagination  can  also 
attain  it  through  the  unlimited.  Hence  a  modern's  prepon- 
derance in  ideas  helps  him  little  in  plastic  works ;  he  is  com- 

•  Tt  became  Moliire  at  any  rate,  as  a  "Nathan   the   Wise,"   and   many   other 

naive  poet,   to  leave  to  the   rlccision   of  pieces.     Rut  what  do  I   s.iy?     This  test 

his   maid-servant   what   should   stand   in  is  actually  applied,  and   Molidre's  maid 

his   comedies   and   what   should    be   sub-  reasons  at  full   sweep,  in  our  critical  li- 

tractcd.     It  were  to  be   wished   that   the  br.nrics,    philosophical    and    literary    an- 

mastcrs  of  the  French  cothurn  had  also  nals  and  travels,  upon  poetry,  art,  and 

tried  that  test  upon  their  tra(?edics.    lUit  the  like;    onlv  as  is  reasonable,  a  little 

I  do  not  mean  to  propose  that  a  similar  more     insipidly     on     (icrman     than     on 

test    should    be    applied    to    the   oilcs    of  French    soil,    and    in    keeping    with    the 

Klopstock,  to  the  finest  f^assaRes  in  the  style  iti  the  servants'  hall  of  Gciniaii  lit« 

"  Messiah,"     in     "  Paradise     Lost,"     in  eraturu. 


UPON   NAIVE   AND   SENTIMENTAL  POETRY         209 

pelled  here  to  define  in  space  most  rigidly  the  image  of  his 
fancy,  and  consequently  to  measure  himself  with  the  ancient 
artist  precisely  in  that  quality,  in  which  the  latter  holds  the 
indisputable  palm.  It  is  otherwise  in  poetic  works;  and 
though  the  ancient  poets  conquer  here  also  in  the  simplicity 
of  their  means,  and  in  that  which  is  sensuously  presentable  and 
corporeal — the  moderns  in  their  turn  leave  them  behind  in 
profusion  of  material,  in  that  which  is  irrepresentable  and  in- 
effable, and  in  short,  in  that  which  we  call  spirit  in  a  work  of 
art. 

As  the  naive  poet  follows  only  simple  nature  and  perception, 
and  confines  himself  only  to  imitation  of  reality,  he  can  only 
hold  a  single  relation  to  his  subject,  and  in  this  respect,  he 
has  no  choice  in  his  mode  of  handling.  The  different  impres- 
sion of  naive  poems  depends  (presupposing  that  we  abstract 
all  therein  which  pertains  to  the  contents,  and  regard  that  im- 
pression only  as  the  pure  effect  of  the  poetic  handling)  only, 
I  remark,  upon  the  different  degree  of  one  and  the  same  per- 
ceptive method.  Even  the  difference  in  the  external  forms 
can  make  no  alteration  in  the  quality  of  that  aesthetic  impres- 
sion. Let  the  form  be  lyric  or  epic,  dramatic  or  descriptive, 
we  may  indeed  experience  emotions  more  or  less  powerful, 
but  never  of  different  kinds,  supposing  the  contents  abstracted. 
Our  emotion  is  altogether  the  same,  composed  entirely  of  one 
element,  so  that  we  can  distinguish  in  it  nothing  else.  Even 
the  difference  of  tongues  and  times  makes  no  alteration  in  this 
respect ;  for  this  pure  unity  of  their  origin  and  their  effect  is 
precisely  one  characteristic  of  naive  poetry. 

The  case  is  entirely  different  with  the  sentimental  poet.  He 
reflects  upon  the  impression  which  the  objects  make  upon 
him,  and  the  emotion  into  which  he  throws  us  and  is  thrown 
himself,  is  only  based  upon  that  reflection.  Here  the  object  is 
related  to  an  idea,  and  its  poetic  power  only  rests  upon  that 
relation.  Hence  the  sentimental  poet  is  always  involved  with 
two  conflicting  representations  and  perceptions,  with  reality 
as  a  limit  and  with  his  idea  as  the  unlimited :  and  the  mingled 
feeling  which  he  excites  will  always  betray  this  twofold 
source.*     Since,  then,  a  plurality  of  principles  here  occurs,  it 

•Whoever     notices     the     impression        and  is  able  to  disconnect  therefrom  the 
which  naive  poems  make  upon  himself,        sympathy  created  by  the  contents,  will 

J— \ol.    60 


2IO 


SCHILLER 


depends  upon  which  of  the  two  predominates  in  the  poet's  per- 
ception and  in  his  representation,  and  a  difference  in  the  han- 
dhng  is  consequently  possible.  For  now  the  question  arises 
whether  he  will  be  more  occupied  with  the  real,  or  more  with 
the  ideal,  whether  he  will  treat  the  former  as  an  object  of  aver- 
sion, or  the  latter  as  an  object  of  inclination.  Then  his  repre- 
sentation will  either  be  satirical,  or  it  will  be  elegiac  (in  a  wider 
signification  of  this  word,  hereafter  to  be  explained).  Every 
sentimental  poet  will  conform  to  one  of  these  two  methods  of 
perception. 

find  this  impression,  even  in  very  pa-  living  presence  of  the  object  in  our  im- 
thetic  subjects,  always  cheerful,  always  agination,  and  seek  nothing  more  than 
pure,  always  tranquil:  while  that  of  this — in  the  sentimental,  on  the  con- 
sentimental  poems  is  always  somewhat  trary,  we  have  to  unite  the  presentation 
grave  and  intensive.  The  reason  is,  of  the  imagination  with  an  idea  of  the 
that  while  in  the  case  of  naive  repre-  reason,  which  always  leaves  us  irreso- 
sentations,  be  the  action  what  it  will,  lute  between  two  different  conditions. 
we  always  rejoice  at  the  truth,  at  tbe 


N    CONSOLATION 


BY 


JEAN     PAUL    FRIEDRICH     RICHTER 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH   RICHTER 

1763— 1825 

The  remarkable  writer  whose  name,  among  his  contemporaries  and 
admirers,  has  been  shortened  to  "  Jean  Paul,  but  who  was  christened 
Johann  Paul  Friedrich  Richter,  was  born  in  the  village  of  Wunsiedel, 
in  the  heart  of  the  Franconian  mountains,  in  1763.  He  was  the  son 
of  a  poor  clergyman  blessed  with  a  large  family,  and  his  early  years 
were  passed  amid  grinding  poverty.  Part  of  his  education  was  obtained 
in  the  gymnasium  of  Hof;  later  he  studied  at  Leipsic.  During  the 
two  years  spent  there  he  was  seriously  hampered  in  his  studies  by  the 
struggle  to  obtain  the  bare  necessities  of  life.  His  first  book  was 
written  in  1783 — a  collection  of  witty,  satirical  sketches  entitled  "  The 
Greenland  Lawsuits."  It  was  only  after  long  search  that  he  found  a 
publisher  for  the  book.  Owing  to  its  extravagantly  eccentric  style, 
the  book  was  little  read  and  less  appreciated.  His  next  book  was  the 
"  Selections  from  the  Devil's  Papers,"  which  no  publisher  would 
consider.  Still  his  determination  to  devote  himself  to  literature  re- 
mained unshaken.  His  mother  was  now  living  at  Hof,  as  poor  as 
himself,  and  he  joined  in  the  effort  to  keep  the  family  from  starvation. 
As  buying  books  was  out  of  the  question,  he  borrowed  them,  making 
copious  extracts  from  others,  and  combining  the  sheets  thus  gathered 
into  a  most  extraordinary  sort  of  "  cyclopsedia."  Everything  was 
there,  Bayard  Taylor  tells  us — theology  and  tinware,  art  and  artichokes, 
science,  cookery,  ideas  of  heaven,  making  of  horse-shoes,  aesthetics, 
edible  mushrooms,  mythology,  millinery.  This  magnum  opus  Richter 
kept  always  at  his  side  when  working,  and  from  it  he,  no  doubt,  drew 
many  of  his  seemingly  far-fetched  and  incongruous  allusions  and  illus- 
trations. 

In  1793  Richter  wrote  "  The  Invisible  Lodge."  His  next  book, 
"  Hesperus,"  brought  him  to  the  knowledge  of  every  author  and  critic 
in  Germany.  In  1796  he  visited  Weimar  and  met  its  literary  celebrities. 
In  1800  he  married,  and  before  long  settled  permanently  in  Bayreuth, 
where  he  remained  till  his  death,  in  1825.  He  was  comparatively  pros- 
perous during  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  He  was  the  guest  of  princes 
and  the  idol  of  the  somewhat  limited  circle  of  his  admirers.  Besides 
"  Hesperus,"  his  most  important  romances  were  "  Titan,"  "  Flegel- 
jahre  "  (Wild  Oats),  and  "  Siebenkiis."  He  also  wrote  a  number  of 
essays,  of  which  "  On  Consolation  "  is  a  good  example,  and  he  achieved 
a  considerable  degree  of  success  in  his  numerous  shorter  tales. 

Richter's  style  is  the  despair  of  readers  and  translators.  As  Carlyle 
has  said,  there  is  "  probably  not  in  any  modern  language  so  intricate 
a  writer;  abounding,  without  measure,  in  obscure  allusions,  in  the 
most  twisted  phraseology;  perplexed  into  endless  entanglements  and 
dislocations,  parenthesis  within  parenthesis;  not  forgetting  elisions, 
sudden  whirls,  quips,  conceits,  and  all  manner  of  inexplicable  crotchets; 
the  whole  moving  on  in  the  gayest  manner."  His  fine  humor,  his  deep 
and  tender  humanity,  his  rich  poetical  imagination,  the  exquisite  deli- 
cacy and  sprightliness  of  his  fancy  are,  however,  qualities  that  have 
rescued  Richter's  work  from  oblivion  in  spite  of  his  style.  And,  after 
all,  the  style  is  a  part  of  the  man.  It  is  the  amazing  combination  of 
strength  and  weakness,  delicacy  and  coarseness,  knowledge  and  ig- 
norance, sentiment  and  grotesque  humor  that  make  "  Jean  Paul " 
what  his  admirers  love  to  call  him — "  the  Unique  "  ("  Der  Einzige  "). 


aia 


ON  CONSOLATION 

A  TIME  will  come,  that  is,  must  come,  when  we  shall  be 
commanded  by  morality  not  only  to  cease  tormenting 
others,  but  also  ourselves.  A  time  must  come  when 
man,  even  on  earth,  shall  wipe  away  most  of  his  tears,  were  it 
only  from  pride. 

Nature,  indeed,  draws  tears  out  of  the  eyes,  and  sighs  out  of 
the  breast,  so  quickly,  that  the  wise  man  can  never  wholly  lay 
aside  the  garb  of  mourning  from  his  body  ;  but  let  his  soul  wear 
none.  For  if  it  is  over  a  merit  to  bear  a  small  suffering  with 
cheerfulness,  so  must  the  calm  and  patient  endurance  of  the 
worst  be  a  merit,  and  will  only  differ  in  being  a  greater  one ; 
as  the  same  reason  which  is  valid  for  the  forgiveness  of  small 
injuries  is  equally  valid  for  the  forgiveness  of  the  greatest. 

The  first  thing  that  we  have  to  contend  against  and  despise, 
in  sorrow  as  in  anger,  is  its  poisonous  enervating  sweetness, 
which  we  are  so  loath  to  exchange  for  the  labor  of  consoling 
ourselves,  and  to  drive  away  by  the  effort  of  reason. 

We  must  not  exact  of  philosophy,  that  with  one  stroke  of  the 
pen  it  shall  reverse  the  transformation  of  Rubens,  who,  with  one 
stroke  of  his  brush,  changed  a  laughing  child  into  a  weeping 
one.  It  is  enough  if  it  change  the  full-mourning  of  the  soul 
into  half-mourning ;  it  is  enough  if  I  can  say  to  myself,  I  will  be 
content  to  endure  the  sorrow  that  philosophy  has  left  me ;  with- 
out it,  it  would  be  greater,  and  the  gnat's  bite  would  be  a  wasp's 
sting. 

Even  physical  pain  shoots  its  sparks  upon  us  out  of  the 
electrical  condenser  of  the  imagination.  We  could  endure  the 
most  acute  pangs  calmly  if  they  only  lasted  the  sixtieth  part  of 
a  second  ;  but,  in  fact,  we  never  have  to  endure  an  hour  of  pain, 
but  only  a  succession  of  the  sixtieth  parts  of  a  second,  the  sixty 
beams  of  which  are  collected  into  the  burning  focus  of  a  second, 
and  directed  upon  our  nerves  by  the  imagination  alone.     The 

213 


214  RICHTER 

most  painful  part  of  our  bodily  pain  is  that  which  is  bodiless, 
or  immaterial,  namely,  our  impatience,  and  the  delusion  that  it 
will  last  forever. 

There  is  many  a  loss  over  which  we  all  know  for  certain  that 
we  shall  no  longer  grieve  in  twenty — ten — two  years.  Why  do 
we  not  say  to  ourselves :  I  will  at  once  then,  to-day,  throw  away 
an  opinion  which  I  shall  abandon  in  twenty  years  ?  Why  should 
I  be  able  to  abandon  errors  of  twenty  years'  standing,  and  not 
of  twenty  hours  ? 

When  I  awake  from  a  dream  which  an  Otaheite  has  painted 
for  me  on  the  dark  ground  of  the  night,  and  find  the  flowery 
land  melted  away,  I  scarcely  sigh,  thinking  to  myself,  "  It  was 
only  a  dream."  Why  is  it  that  if  I  had  really  possessed  this 
island  while  awake,  and  it  had  been  swallowed  up  by  an  earth- 
quake, why  is  it  that  I  do  not  then  exclaim,  "  The  island  was 
only  a  dream  "  ?  Wherefore  am  I  more  inconsolable  at  the  loss 
of  a  longer  dream  than  at  the  loss  of  a  shorter  ? — for  that  is  the 
difference ;  and  why  does  man  find  a  great  loss  less  probable  and 
less  a  matter  of  necessity,  when  it  occurs,  than  a  small  one  ? 

The  reason  is,  that  every  sentiment  and  every  emotion  is 
mad,  and  exacts  and  builds  its  own  world.  A  man  can  vex 
himself  that  it  is  already,  or  only,  twelve  o'clock.  What  folly ! 
The  mood  not  only  exacts  its  own  world,  its  own  individual  ^ 
consciousness,  but  its  own  time.  I  beg  everyone  to  let  his  pas- 
sions, for  once,  speak  out  plainly  within  himself,  and  to  probe 
and  question  them  to  the  bottom,  as  to  what  they  really  desire. 
He  will  be  terror-struck  at  the  enormity  of  these  hitherto  only 
half-muttered  wishes.  Anger  wishes  that  all  mankind  had  only 
one  neck;  love,  that  it  had  only  one  heart;  grief,  two  tear- 
glands  ;  and  pride,  two  bent  knees. 

When  I  read  in  Widman's  "  Court  Chronicle  "  of  the  terrible 
bloody  times  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  and  as  it  were  lived  them 
over  again ;  when  I  heard  once  more  the  cries  of  the  tortured 
for  help,  as  they  struggled  in  the  Danube-whirlpools  of  their 
age,  and  again  beheld  the  clasping  of  hands,  and  the  delirious 
wandering  to  and  fro  on  the  several  pillars  of  the  crumbling 
bridges,  against  which  struck  foaming  billows  and  fiercely- 
driven  fields  of  ice — and  thus  reflected,  "  All  the  waves  have  sub- 
sided, the  ice  has  melted,  the  storm  is  mute,  and  the  human 

*  "  Scin  eigncs  ich." 


ON    CONSOLATION  215 

beings  also  with  their  sighs,"  I  was  filled  with  a  peculiar  melan- 
choly feeling  of  consolation  for  all  times ;  and  I  asked,  "  Was 
and  is,  then,  this  fleeting  misery  beneath  the  churchyard-gate 
of  life,  which  three  steps  into  the  nearest  cavern  could  put  an  end 
to,  worth  all  this  cowardly  lamentation?"  Verily,  if  there  be, 
as  I  believe  there  is,  true  constancy  under  an  eternal  sorrow, 
then  is  patience  under  a  fleeting  one  scarcely  worthy  of  the 
name. 

A  great  and  unmerited  national  calamity  should  not  humble 
us,  as  the  theologians  demand,  but  rather  make  us  proud. 
When  the  long  heavy  sword  of  war  falls  upon  humanity,  and 
when  a  thousand  pale  hearts  are  riven  and  bleeding;  or  when, 
on  a  blue  serene  evening,  the  hot  smoky  cloud  of  a  city,  cast  on 
the  funereal  pyre,  hangs  darkly  on  the  sky — as  though  it  were 
the  cloud  of  ashes  of  a  thousand  consumed  hearts  and  joys — 
then  be  thy  spirit  Hfted  up  in  pride,  and  let  it  contemn  the  tear 
and  that  for  which  it  falls,  saying,  "  Thou  art  much  too  insig- 
nificant, thou  every-day  life,  for  the  inconsolableness  of  an  im- 
mortal— thou  tattered,  misshapen,  wholesale  existence!  Upon 
this  sphere,  which  is  rounded  with  the  ashes  of  thousands  of 
years,  amid  the  storms  of  earth,  made  up  of  vapors,  it  is  a  dis- 
grace that  the  sigh  should  only  be  dissipated  together  with  the 
bosom  that  gives  it  birth,  and  not  sooner;  and  that  the  tear 
should  not  perish  except  with  the  eye  whence  it  flows." 

But  then,  moderate  thy  sublime  indignation,  and  put  this  ques- 
tion to  thyself:  If  the  hidden  Infinite  One,  who  is  encompassed 
by  gleaming  abysses  without  bounds,  and  who  himself  creates 
the  bounds,  were  now  to  lay  immensity  open  to  thy  view,  and 
to  reveal  himself  to  thee  in  his  distribution  of  the  suns,  the 
lofty  spirits,  the  little  human  hearts,  and  our  days  and  some 
tears  therein — wouldst  thou  rise  up  out  of  thy  dust  against  him, 
and  say,  "  Almighty !  be  other  than  Thou  art !  " 

But  be  one  sorrow  alone  forgiven  thee,  or  made  good  to  thee 
— the  sorrow  for  thy  dead  ones ;  for  this  sweet  sorrow  for  the 
lost  is  itself  but  another  form  of  consolation.  When  the  heart 
is  full  of  longing  for  them,  it  is  but  another  mode  of  continuing 
to  love  them ;  and  we  shed  tears  as  well  when  we  think  of  their 
departure,  as  when  we  picture  to  ourselves  our  joyful  reunion 
and  the  tears,  methinks,  differ  not. 


ON    AUTHORSHIP    AND    STYLE 


BY 


ARTHUR    SCHOPENHAUER 


ARTHUR   SCHOPENHAUER 

1788— 1860 

Arthur  Schopenhauer  was  born  at  Dantzic  in  1788.  His  father,  ^ 
member  of  the  mercantile  aristocracy  of  the  city,  was  successful  in 
business  and  a  man  of  unusual  intelligence,  but  was  afflicted  with  hered- 
itary mental  disorder,  which  culminated  in  suicide.  His  mother,  who 
was  twenty  years  younger  than  her  husband,  was  a  woman  of  con- 
siderable intellectual  power,  a  novelist  of  some  reputation  among  her 
contemporaries,  and  a  friend  of  Goethe.  During  his  boyhood  Schopen- 
hauer travelled  extensively  with  his  parents.  In  1805  he  entered  his 
father's  business,  but  this  proved  so  extremely  distasteful  to  him  that 
his  mother  gave  him  permission  to  attend  the  lectures  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Gottingen,  where  he  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  the  study  of 
Kant  and  Plato.  He  had,  when  still  young,  determined  that  his  life 
should  be  one  given  to  philosophical  speculation,  saying  to  Wieland, 
who  once  suggested  doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  choice:  "  Life  is 
a  ticklish  business;    I  have  resolved  to  spend  it  in  reflecting  upon  it." 

After  two  years  spent  at  Gottingen,  Schopenhauer  went  to  Berlin, 
where  Fichte  and  Schleiermacher  were  his  teachers,  and  in  1813  sub- 
mitted as  a  thesis  for  the  degree  of  doctor  of  philosophy  a  treatise 
"  On  the  Fourfold  Root  of  the  Principle  of  Sufficient  Reason."  In 
1819  he  published  his  magnum  opus,  "  The  World  as  Will  and  Idea." 

After  this  he  led  an  eccentric  and  solitary  existence  in  various  Ger- 
man cities,  interrupted  only  by  a  journey  to  Italy,  finally  settling  in 
Frankfort,  in  1831,  where  he  lived  till  his  death,  in  i860. 

In  1836  Schopenhauer  published  a  book  entitled  "  Will  in  Nature," 
and  in  1841  "  The  Two  Main  Problems  of  Ethics  " — both  works  of 
minor  importance  and  of  interest  chiefly  to  students  of  his  philosophy. 
In  1844  a  second  edition  of  "  The  World  as  Will  and  Idea  "  was  pub- 
lished, a  new  volume  being  added,  consisting  of  commentaries  on  the 
first.  Although  Schopenhauer's  work  now  holds  a  high  place  in  Ger- 
man philosophical  literature  and  has  profoundly  influenced  certain 
channels  of  modern  thought,  it  was  many  years  before  its  merits  were 
recognized.  This  undeserved  neglect  intensified  Schopenhauer's  psy- 
chological peculiarities  and  made  him  still  more  retired  and  morose. 
The  old  philosopher,  waiting  for  a  sign  that  his  great  message  to 
mankind  had  at  last  found  appreciative  hearers,  living  meanwhile 
alone  with  his  dog  and  his  daily  paper  as  the  only  visible  means  of 
his  intercourse  with  the  world  without,  is  one  of  the  most  striking  fig- 
ures in  the  annals  of  literature.  During  his  last  years  the  importance 
of  his  system  began  to  be  recognized,  and  he  suddenly  became  famous, 
his  death  being  a  sort  of  apotheosis.  As  a  thinker  Schopenhauer  ranks 
among  the  first  of  the  post-Kantian  philosophers.  His  literary  style 
is  perhaps  superior  to  that  of  any  of  the  other  German  writers  on 
philosophy,  being  notably  clear  and  brilliant.  His  illustrations  are 
especially  apt  and  forcible.  The  essay  on  "  Authorship  and  Style " 
is  a  characteristic  example  of  his  literary  method. 


3t8 


ON   AUTHORSHIP  AND  STYLE 

THERE  are,  first  of  all,  two  kinds  of  authors :  those  who 
write  for  the  subject's  sake,  and  those  who  write  for 
writing's  sake.  The  first  kind  have  had  thoughts  or 
experiences  which  seem  to  them  worth  communicating,  while 
the  second  kind  need  money  and  consequently  write  for  money. 
They  think  in  order  to  write,  and  they  may  be  recognized  by 
their  spinning  out  their  thoughts  to  the  greatest  possible  length, 
and  also  by  the  way  they  work  out  their  thoughts,  which  are 
half-true,  perverse,  forced,  and  vacillating;  then  also  by  their 
love  of  evasion,  so  that  they  may  seem  what  they  are  not ;  and 
this  is  why  their  writing  is  lacking  in  definiteness  and  clearness. 
Consequently,  it  is  soon  recognized  that  they  write  for  the 
sake  of  filling  up  the  paper,  and  this  is  the  case  sometimes  with 
the  best  authors ;  for  example,  in  parts  of  Lessing's  "  Drama- 
turgic," and  even  in  many  of  Jean  Paul's  romances.  As  soon 
as  this  is  perceived  the  book  should  be  thrown  away,  for  time 
is  precious.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  author  is  cheating  the 
reader  as  soon  as  he  writes  for  the  sake  of  filling  up  paper; 
because  his  pretext  for  writing  is  that  he  has  something  to  im- 
part. Writing  for  money  and  preservation  of  copyright  are, 
at  bottom,  the  ruin  of  literature.  It  is  only  the  man  who  writes 
absolutely  for  the  sake  of  the  subject  that  writes  anything  worth 
writing.  What  an  inestimable  advantage  it  would  be,  if,  in 
every  branch  of  literature,  there  existed  only  a  few  but  excellent 
books !  This  can  never  come  to  pass  so  long  as  money  is  to  be 
made  by  writing.  It  seems  as  if  money  lay  under  a  curse,  for 
every  author  deteriorates  directly  he  writes  in  any  way  for  the 
sake  of  money.  The  best  works  of  great  men  all  come  from 
the  time  when  they  had  to  write  either  for  nothing  or  for  very 
little  pay.  This  is  confirmed  by  the  Spanish  proverb :  "  Honra 
y  provecho  no  cabcn  cii  tin  saco"  (Honor  and  money  are  not 
to  be  found  in  the  same  purse).     The  deplorable  condition  of 

310 


220  SCHOPENHAUER 

the  literature  of  to-day,  both  in  Germany  and  other  countries, 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  books  are  written  for  the  sake  of  earning 
money.  Everyone  who  is  in  want  of  money  sits  down  and 
writes  a  book,  and  the  pubHc  is  stupid  enough  to  buy  it.  The 
secondary  effect  of  this  is  the  ruin  of  language. 

A  great  number  of  bad  authors  eke  out  their  existence  en- 
tirely by  the  foolishness  of  the  public,  which  only  will  read  what 
has  just  been  printed.  I  refer  to  journalists,  who  have  been 
appropriately  so  called.  In  other  words  it  would  be  "  day 
laborer.'' 

Again,  it  may  be  said  that  there  are  three  kinds  of  authors. 
In  the  first  place,  there  are  those  who  write  without  thinking. 
They  write  from  memory,  from  reminiscences,  or  even  direct 
from  other  people's  books.  This  class  is  the  most  numerous. 
In  the  second,  those  who  think  whilst  they  are  writing.  They 
think  in  order  to  write;  and  they  are  numerous.  In  the  third 
place,  there  are  those  who  have  thought  before  they  begin  to 
write.  They  write  solely  because  they  have  thought ;  and  they 
are  rare. 

Authors  of  the  second  class,  who  postpone  their  thinking  until 
they  begin  to  write,  are  like  a  sportsman  who  goes  out  at  ran- 
dom— he  is  not  likely  to  bring  home  very  much.  While  the 
writing  of  an  author  of  the  third,  the  rare  class,  is  like  a  chase 
where  the  game  has  been  captured  beforehand  and  cooped  up 
in  some  enclosure  from  which  it  is  afterwards  set  free,  so  many 
at  a  time,  into  another  enclosure,  where  it  is  not  possible  for  it 
to  escape,  and  the  sportsman  has  now  nothing  to  do  but  to  aim 
and  fire — that  is  to  say,  put  his  thoughts  on  paper.  This  is 
the  kind  of  sport  which  yields  something. 

But  although  the  number  of  those  authors  who  really  and 
seriously  think  before  they  write  is  small,  only  extremely  few 
of  them  think  about  the  subject  itself;  the  rest  think  only  about 
the  books  written  on  this  subject,  and  what  has  been  said  by 
others  upon  it,  I  mean.  In  order  to  think,  they  must  have 
the  more  direct  and  powerful  incentive  of  other  people's 
tiioughts.  These  become  their  next  theme,  and  therefore  they 
always  remain  under  their  influence  and  are  never,  strictly 
speaking,  original.  On  the  contrary,  the  former  are  roused 
to  thought  througii  the  subject  itself,  hence  their  thinking  is 
directed  immediately  to  it.     It  is  only  among  them  that  we  find 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND   STYLE  831 

the  authors  whose  names  become  immortal.  Let  it  be  under- 
stood that  I  am  speaking  here  of  writers  of  the  higher  branches 
of  hterature,  and  not  of  writers  on  the  method  of  distiUing 
brandy. 

It  is  only  the  writer  who  takes  the  material  on  which  he  writes 
direct  out  of  his  own  head  that  is  worth  reading.  Book  man- 
ufacturers, compilers,  and  the  ordinary  history  writers,  and 
others  like  them,  take  their  material  straight  out  of  books;  it 
passes  into  their  fingers  without  its  having  paid  transit  duty  or 
undergone  inspection  when  it  was  in  their  heads,  to  say  nothing 
of  elaboration.  (How  learned  many  a  man  would  be  if  he 
knew  everything  that  was  in  his  own  books  !)  Hence  their  talk 
is  often  of  such  a  vague  nature  that  one  racks  one's  brains  in 
vain  to  understand  of  what  they  are  really  thinking.  They  are 
not  thinking  at  all.  The  book  from  which  they  copy  is  some- 
times composed  in  the  same  way :  so  that  writing  of  this  kind 
is  like  a  plaster  cast  of  a  cast  of  a  cast,  and  so  on,  until  finally 
all  that  is  left  is  a  scarcely  recognizable  outline  of  the  face  of 
Antinous.  Therefore,  compilations  should  be  read  as  seldom 
as  possible :  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  them  entirely,  since  com- 
pendia, which  contain  in  a  small  space  knowledge  that  has  been 
collected  in  the  course  of  several  centuries,  are  included  in 
compilations. 

No  greater  mistake  can  be  made  than  to  imagine  that  what 
has  been  written  latest  is  always  the  more  correct ;  that  what  is 
written  later  on  is  an  improvement  on  what  was  written  pre- 
viously ;  and  that  every  change  means  progress.  Men  who 
think  and  have  correct  judgment,  and  people  who  treat  their 
subject  earnestly,  are  all  exceptions  only.  Vermin  is  the  rule 
everywhere  in  the  world :  it  is  always  at  hand  and  busily  en- 
gaged in  trying  to  improve  in  its  own  way  upon  the  mature 
deliberations  of  the  thinkers.  So  that  if  a  man  wishes  to  im- 
prove himself  in  any  subject  he  must  guard  against  imme- 
diately seizing  the  newest  books  written  upon  it,  in  the  assump- 
tion that  science  is  always  advancing  and  that  the  older  books 
have  been  made  use  of  in  the  compiling  of  the  new.  They 
have,  it  is  true,  been  used;  but  how?  The  writer  often  does 
not  thoroughly  understand  the  old  books;  he  will,  at  the  same 
time,  not  use  their  exact  words,  so  that  the  result  is  he  spoils 
and  bungles  what  has  been  said  in  a  much  better  and  clearer 


222  SCHOPENHAUER 

way  by  the  old  writers;  since  they  wrote  from  their  own  lively 
knowledge  of  the  subject.  He  oiten  leaves  out  the  best  things 
they  have  written,  their  most  striking  elucidations  of  the  matter, 
their  happiest  remarks,  because  he  does  not  recognize  their 
value  or  feel  how  pregnant  they  are.  It  is  only  what  is  stupid 
and  shallow  that  appeals  to  him.  An  old  and  -excellent  book 
is  frequently  shelved  for  new  and  bad  ones ;  which,  written  for 
the  sake  of  money,  wear  a  pretentious  air  and  are  much  eulo- 
gized by  the  authors'  friends.  In  science,  a  man  who  wishes 
to  distinguish  himself  brings  something  new  to  market ;  this 
frequently  consists  in  his  denouncing  some  principle  that  has 
been  previously  held  as  correct,  so  that  he  may  establish  a 
wrong  one  of  his  own.  Sometimes  his  attempt  is  successful 
for  a  short  time,  when  a  return  is  made  to  the  old  and  correct 
doctrine.  These  innovators  are  serious  about  nothing  else  in 
the  world  than  their  own  priceless  person,  and  it  is  this  that 
they  wish  to  make  its  mark.  They  bring  this  quickly  about  by 
beginning  a  paradox ;  the  sterility  of  their  own  heads  suggests 
their  taking  the  path  of  negation ;  and  truths  that  have  long 
been  recognized  are  now  denied — for  instance,  the  vital  power, 
the  sympathetic  nervous  system,  generatio  equivoca,  Bichat's 
distinction  between  the  working  of  the  passions  and  the  work- 
ing of  intelligence,  or  they  return  to  crass  atomism,  etc.,  etc. 
Hence  the  course  of  science  is  often  retrogressive. 

To  this  class  of  writers  belong  also  those  translators  who, 
besides  translating  their  author,  at  the  same  time  correct  and 
alter  him,  a  thing  that  always  seems  to  me  impertinent.  Write 
books  yourself  which  are  worth  translating  and  leave  the  books 
of  other  people  as  they  are.  One  should  read,  if  it  is  possible, 
the  real  authors,  the  founders  and  discoverers  of  things,  or  at 
any  rate  the  recognized  great  masters  in  every  branch  of  learn- 
ing, and  buy  second-hand  books  rather  than  read  their  contents 
in  new  ones. 

It  is  true  that  inventis  aliquid  addere  facile  est,  therefore  a 
man,  after  having  studied  the  principles  of  his  subject,  will  have 
to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  more  recent  information 
written  upon  it.  In  general,  the  following  rule  holds  good  here 
as  elsewhere,  namely:  what  is  new  is  seldom  good;  because  a 
good  tliitig  is  only  new  for  a  short  lime. 

What  the  address  is  to  a  letter  the  title  should  be  to  a  book-»- 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND    STYLE  223 

that  is,  its  immediate  aim  should  be  to  bring  the  book  to  that 
part  of  the  pubhc  that  will  be  interested  in  its  contents.  There- 
fore, the  title  should  be  effective,  and  since  it  is  essentially  short, 
it  should  be  concise,  laconic,  pregnant,  and  if  possible  express 
the  contents  in  a  word.  Therefore  a  title  that  is  prolix,  or 
means  nothing  at  all,  or  that  is  indirect  or  ambiguous,  is  bad; 
so  is  one  that  is  false  and  misleading :  this  last  may  prepare  for 
the  book  the  same  fate  as  that  which  awaits  a  wrongly  addressed 
letter.  The  worst  titles  are  those  that  are  stolen,  such  titles  that 
is  to  say  that  other  books  already  bear ;  for  in  the  first  place  they 
arc  a  plagiarism,  and  in  the  second  a  most  convincing  proof  of 
an  absolute  want  of  originality.  A  man  who  has  not  enough 
originality  to  think  out  a  new  title  for  his  book  will  be  much  less 
capable  of  giving  it  new  contents.  Akin  to  these  are  those  titles 
which  have  been  imitated,  in  other  words,  half  stolen ;  for  in- 
stance, a  long  time  after  I  had  written  "  On  Will  in  Nature," 
Oersted  wrote  "  On  Mind  in  Nature." 

A  book  can  never  be  anything  more  than  the  impression  of 
its  author's  thoughts.  The  value  of  these  thoughts  lies  either 
in  the  matter  about  which  he  has  thought,  or  in  the  form  in 
which  he  develops  his  matter — that  is  to  say,  what  he  has 
thought  about  it. 

The  matter  of  books  is  very  various,  as  also  are  the  merits 
conferred  on  books  on  account  of  their  matter.  All  matter  that 
is  the  outcome  of  experience,  in  other  words  everything  that  is 
founded  on  fact,  whether  it  be  historical  or  physical,  taken  by 
itself  and  in  its  widest  sense,  is  included  in  the  term  matter. 
It  is  the  motif  that  gives  its  peculiar  character  to  the  book,  so 
that  a  book  can  be  important  whoever  the  author  may  have 
been  ;  while  with  form  the  peculiar  character  of  a  book  rests  with 
the  author  of  it.  The  subjects  may  be  of  such  a  nature  as  to  be 
accessible  and  well  known  to  everybody ;  but  the  form  in  which 
they  are  expounded,  what  has  been  thought  about  them,  gives 
the  book  its  value,  and  this  depends  upon  the  author.  There- 
fore if  a  book,  from  this  point  of  view,  is  excellent  and  without 
a  rival,  so  also  is  its  author.  From  this  it  follows  that  the  merit 
of  a  writer  worth  reading  is  all  the  greater  the  less  he  is  de- 
pendent on  matter — and  the  better  known  and  worn  out  this 
matter,  the  greater  will  be  his  merit.  The  three  great  Grecian 
tragediarvs,  for  instance,  all  worked  at  the  same  subject. 


224  SCHOPENHAUER 

So  that  when  a  book  becomes  famous  one  should  carefully 
distinguish  whether  it  is  so  on  account  of  its  matter  or  its 
form. 

Quite  ordinary  and  shallow  men  are  able  to  produce  books  of 
very  great  importance  because  of  their  matter,  which  was  ac- 
cessible to  them  alone.  Take,  for  instance,  books  which  give 
descriptions  of  foreign  countries,  rare  natural  phenomena,  ex- 
periments that  have  been  made,  historical  events  of  which  they 
were  witnesses,  or  have  spent  both  time  and  trouble  in  inquiring 
into  and  specially  studying  the  authorities  for  them. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  on  form  that  we  are  dependent  where 
th^  matter  is  accessible  to  everyone  or  very  well  known;  and 
it  is  what  has  been  thought  about  the  matter  that  will  give  any 
value  to  the  achievement ;  it  will  only  be  an  eminent  man  who 
will  be  able  to  write  anything  that  is  worth  reading.  For  the 
others  will  only  think  what  is  possible  for  every  other  man  to 
think.  They  give  the  impress  of  their  own  mind ;  but  every- 
one already  possesses  the  original  of  this  impression. 

However,  the  public  is  very  much  more  interested  in  matter 
than  in  form,  and  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that  it  is  behindhand 
in  any  high  degree  of  culture.  It  is  most  laughable  the  way 
the  public  reveals  its  liking  for  matter  in  poetic  works ;  it  care- 
fully investigates  the  real  events  or  personal  circumstances  of 
the  poet's  life  which  served  to  give  the  motif  of  his  works ;  nay, 
finally,  it  finds  these  more  interesting  than  the  works  them- 
selves ;  it  reads  more  about  Goethe  than  what  has  been  written 
by  Goethe,  and  industriously  studies  .the  legend  of  Faust  in 
preference  to  Goethe's  "  Faust  "  itself.  And  when  Biirger  said 
that  "  people  would  make  learned  expositions  as  to  who  Leonora 
really  was,"  we  see  this  literally  fulfilled  in  Goethe's  case,  for  we 
now  have  many  learned  expositions  on  Faust  and  the  Faust 
legend.  They  are  and  will  remain  of  a  purely  material  charac- 
ter. This  preference  for  matter  to  form  is  the  same  as  a  man 
ignoring  the  shape  and  painting  of  a  fine  Etruscan  vase  in 
order  to  make  a  chemical  examination  of  the  clay  and  colors 
of  which  it  is  made.  The  attempt  to  be  effective  by  means  of 
the  matter  used,  thereby  ministering  to  this  evil  propensity  of 
the  pubh'c.  is  absolutely  to  be  censured  in  branches  of  writing 
where  the  merit  must  lie  expressly  in  the  form  ;  as.  for  instance, 
in  poetical  writing.     However,  there  are  numerous  bad  dra- 


ON   AUTHORSHIP   AND    STYLE  225 

matic  authors  striving  to  fill  the  theatre  by  means  of  the  matter 
they  are  treating.  For  instance,  they  place  on  the  stage  any 
kind  of  celebrated  man,  however  stripped  of  dramatic  incidents 
his  life  may  have  been,  nay,  sometimes  without  waiting  until 
the  persons  who  appear  with  him  are  dead. 

The  distinction  between  matter  and  form,  of  which  I  am  here 
speaking,  is  true  also  in  regard  to  conversation.  It  is  chiefly 
intelligence,  judgment,  wit,  and  vivacity  that  enable  a  man  to 
converse;  they  give  form  to  the  conversation.  However,  the 
matter  of  the  conversation  must  soon  come  into  notice — in 
other  words,  that  about  which  one  can  talk  to  the  man,  namely, 
his  knowledge.  If  this  is  very  small,  it  will  only  be  his  pos- 
sessing the  above-named  formal  qualities  in  a  quite  exception- 
ally high  degree  that  will  make  his  conversation  of  any  value, 
for  his  matter  will  be  restricted  to  things  concerning  humanity 
and  nature  which  are  known  generally.  It  is  just  the  reverse 
if  a  man  is  wanting  in  these  formal  qualities,  but  has,  on  the 
other  hand,  knowledge  of  such  a  kind  that  it  lends  value  to  his 
conversation ;  this  value,  however,  will  then  entirely  rest  on  the 
matter  of  his  conversation,  for,  according  to  the  Spanish 
proverb,  "Mas  sabe  el  necio  en  sii  casa,  que  el  sabio  en  la 
agena." 

A  thought  only  really  lives  until  it  has  reached  the  boundary 
line  of  words ;  it  then  becomes  petrified  and  dies  immediately ; 
yet  it  is  as  everlasting  as  the  fossilized  animals  and  plants  of 
former  ages.  Its  existence,  which  is  really  momentary,  may 
be  compared  to  a  crystal  the  instant  it  becomes  crystallized. 

As  soon  as  a  thought  has  found  words  it  no  longer  exists  in 
us  or  is  serious  in  its  deepest  sense. 

When  it  begins  to  exist  for  others  it  ceases  to  live  in  us; 
just  as  a  child  frees  itself  from  its  mother  when  it  comes  into 
existence.     The  poet  has  also  said : 

"  I/ir  miisst  mich  nicht  durch  Widerspruch  verwirren  ! 
Sobald  man  spricht,  beginnt  7nan  schon  zu  irren." 

The  pen  is  to  thought  what  the  stick  is  to  walking,  but  one 
walks  most  easily  without  a  stick,  and  thinks  most  perfectly 
when  no  pen  is  at  hand.  It  is  only  when  a  man  begins  to  get 
old  that  he  likes  to  make  use  of  a  stick  and  his  pen. 

A  hypothesis  that  has  once  gained  a  position  in  the  mind. 


226  SCHOPENHAUER 

or  been  born  in  it,  leads  a  life  resembling  that  of  an  organism, 
in  so  far  as  it  receives  from  the  outer  world  matter  only  that 
is  advantageous  and  homogeneous  to  it;  on  the  other  hand, 
matter  that  is  harmful  and  heterogeneous  to  it  is  either  rejected, 
or  if  it  must  be  received,  cast  off  again  entirely. 

Abstract  and  indefinite  terms  should  be  employed  in  satire 
only  as  they  are  in  algebra,  in  place  of  concrete  and  specified 
quantities.  Moreover,  it  should  be  used  as  sparingly  as  the  dis- 
secting knife  on  the  body  of  a  living  man.  At  the  risk  of  for- 
feiting his  life  it  is  an  unsafe  experiment. 

For  a  work  to  become  immortal  it  must  possess  so  many  excel- 
lences that  it  will  not  be  easy  to  find  a  man  who  understands 
and  values  them  all ;  so  that  there  will  be  in  all  ages  men  who 
recognize  and  appreciate  some  of  these  excellences ;  by  this 
means  the  credit  of  the  work  will  be  retained  throughout  the 
long  course  of  centuries  and  ever-changing  interests,  for,  as  it 
is  appreciated  first  in  this  sense,  then  in  that,  the  interest  is 
never  exhausted. 

An  author  like  this,  in  other  words,  an  author  who  has  a  claim 
to  live  on  in  posterity,  can  only  be  a  man  who  seeks  in  vain  his 
like  among  his  contemporaries  over  the  wide  world,  his  marked 
distinction  making  him  a  striking  contrast  to  everyone  else. 
Even  if  he  existed  through  several  generations,  like  the  Wander- 
ing Jew,  he  would  still  occupy  the  same  position ;  in  short,  he 
would  be,  as  Ariosto  has  put  it,  "  lo  fece  natura,  e  poi  riippe  lo 
stampo."  If  this  were  not  so,  one  would  not  be  able  to  under- 
stand why  his  thoughts  should  not  perish  like  those  of  other 
men. 

In  almost  every  age,  whether  it  be  in  literature  or  art,  we 
find  that  if  a  thoroughly  wrong  idea,  or  a  fashion,  or  a  manner 
is  in  vogue,  it  is  admired.  Those  of  ordinary  intelligence 
trouble  themselves  inordinately  to  acquire  it  and  i)ut  it  in  prac- 
tice. An  intelligent  man  sees  through  it  and  despises  it,  con- 
sequently he  remains  out  of  the  fashion.  Some  years  later 
the  public  sees  through  it  and  takes  the  sham  for  what  it  is 
worth ;  it  now  laughs  at  it,  and  the  much-admired  color  of  all 
these  works  of  fashion  falls  off  like  the  plaster  from  a  badly- 
built  wall :  and  they  are  in  the  same  dilapidated  condition.  We 
should  be  glad  and  not  sorry  when  a  fundamentally  wrong 
notion  of  which  we  have  been  secretly  conscious  for  a  long  time 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND    STYLE  227 

finally  gains  a  footing  and  is  proclaimed  both  loudly  and  openly. 
The  falseness  of  it  will  soon  be  felt  and  eventually  proclaimed 
equally  loudly  and  openly.     It  is  as  if  an  abscess  had  burst. 

The  man  who  publishes  and  edits  an  article  written  by  an 
anonymous  critic  should  be  held  as  immediately  responsible  for 
it  as  if  he  had  written  it  himself;  just  as  one  holds  a  manager 
responsible  for  bad  work  done  by  his  workmen.  In  this  way 
the  fellow  would  be  treated  as  he  deserves  to  be — namely,  with- 
out any  ceremony. 

An  anonymous  writer  is  a  literary  fraud  against  whom  one 
should  immediately  cry  out,  "  Wretch,  if  you  do  not  wish  to 
admit  what  it  is  you  say  against  other  people,  hold  your  slander- 
ous tongue." 

An  anonymous  criticism  carries  no  more  weight  than  an 
anonymous  letter,  and  should  therefore  be  looked  upon  with 
equal  mistrust.  Or  do  we  wish  to  accept  the  assumed  name 
of  a  man,  who  in  reality  represents  a  societe  anonyme,  as  a 
guarantee  for  the  veracity  of  his  friends? 

The  little  honesty  that  exists  among  authors  is  discernible  in 
the  unconscionable  way  they  misquote  from  the  writings  of 
others.  I  find  whole  passages  in  my  works  wrongly  quoted, 
and  it  is  only  in  my  appendix,  which  is  absolutely  lucid,  that 
an  exception  is  made.  The  misquotation  is  frequently  due  to 
carelessness,  the  pen  of  such  people  has  been  used  to  write  down 
such  trivial  and  banal  phrases  that  it  goes  on  writing  them  out 
of  force  of  habit.  Sometimes  the  misquotation  is  due  to  im- 
pertinence on  the  part  of  someone  who  wants  to  improve  upon 
my  work ;  but  a  bad  motive  only  too  often  prompts  the  mis- 
quotation— it  is  then  horrid  baseness  and  roguery,  and,  like  a 
man  who  commits  forgery,  he  loses  the  character  for  being  an 
honest  man  forever. 

Style  is  the  physiognomy  of  the  mind.  It  is  a  more  reliable 
key  to  character  than  the  physiognomy  of  the  body.  To  imi- 
tate another  person's  style  is  like  wearing  a  mask.  However 
fine  the  mask,  it  soon  becomes  insipid  and  intolerable  because  it 
is  without  life ;  so  that  even  the  ugliest  living  face  is  better. 
Therefore  authors  who  write  in  Latin  and  imitate  the  style  of 
the  old  writers  essentially  wear  a  mask ;  one  certainly  hears 
what  they  say,  but  one  cannot  watch  their  physiognomy — that 
is  to  say  their  style.     One  observes,  however,  the  style  in  the 


228  SCHOPENHAUER 

Latin  writings  of  men  who  think  for  themselves,  those  who 
have  not  deigned  to  imitate,  as,  for  instance,  Scotus  Erigena, 
Petrarch,  Bacon,  Descartes,  Spinoza,  etc. 

Affectation  in  style  is  like  making  grimaces.  The  language 
in  which  a  man  writes  is  the  physiognomy  of  his  nation ;  it 
establishes  a  great  many  dift'erences,  beginning  from  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Greeks  down  to  that  of  the  Caribbean  islanders. 

We  should  seek  for  the  faults  in  the  style  of  another  author's 
works,  so  that  we  may  avoid  committing  the  same  in  our  own. 

In  order  to  get  a  provisional  estimate  of  the  value  of  an  au- 
thor's productions  it  is  not  exactly  necessary  to  know  the  mat- 
ter on  which  he  has  thought  or  what  it  is  he  has  thought  about 
it — this  would  compel  one  to  read  the  whole  of  his  works — but 
it  will  be  sufficient  to  know  how  he  has  thought.  His  style  is 
an  exact  expression  of  how  he  has  thought,  of  the  essential  state 
and  general  quality  of  his  thoughts.  It  shows  the  formal  nat- 
ure— which  must  always  remain  the  same — of  all  the  thoughts 
of  a  man,  whatever  the  subject  on  which  he  has  thought  or  what 
it  is  he  has  said  about  it.  It  is  the  dough  out  of  which  all  his 
ideas  are  kneaded,  however  various  they  may  be.  When  Eulen- 
spiegel  was  asked  by  a  man  how  long  he  would  have  to  walk 
before  reaching  the  next  place,  and  gave  the  apparently  absurd 
answer,  "  Walk,"  his  intention  was  to  judge  from  the  man's 
walking  how  far  he  would  go  in  a  given  time.  And  so  it  is 
when  I  have  read  a  few  pages  of  an  author,  I  know  about  how 
far  he  can  help  me. 

In  the  secret  consciousness  that  this  is  the  condition  of  things, 
every  mediocre  writer  tries  to  mask  his  own  natural  style. 
This  instantly  necessitates  his  giving  up  all  idea  of  being  naive, 
a  privilege  which  belongs  to  superior  minds  sensible  of  their 
superiority,  and  therefore  sure  of  themselves.  For  instance, 
it  is  absolutely  impossible  for  men  of  ordinary  intelligence  to 
make  up  their  minds  to  write  as  they  think  ;  they  resent  the  idea 
of  their  work  looking  too  simple.  It  would  always  be  of  some 
value,  however.  If  they  would  only  go  honestly  to  work  and  in 
a  simple  way  express  the  few  and  ordinary  ideas  they  have 
really  thought,  they  would  be  readable  and  even  instructive  in 
their  own  sphere.  But  instead  of  that  they  try  to  appear  to 
have  thought  much  more  deeply  than  is  the  case.  The  result 
is,  they  put  what  they  have  to  say  into  forced  and  involved  Ian- 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND   STYLE  229 

guage,  create  new  words  and  prolix  periods  which  go  round 
the  thought  and  cover  it  up.  They  hesitate  between  the  two 
attempts  of  communicating  the  thought  and  of  conceahng  it. 
They  want  to  make  it  looi<  grand  so  that  it  has  the  appearance 
of  being  learned  and  profound,  thereby  giving  one  the  idea  that 
there  is  much  more  in  it  than  one  perceives  at  the  moment.  Ac- 
cordingly, they  sometimes  put  down  their  thoughts  in  bits,  in 
short,  equivocal,  and  paradoxical  sentences  which  appear  to 
mean  much  more  than  they  say  (a  splendid  example  of  this  kind 
of  writing  is  furnished  by  Schelling's  treatises  on  natural  phi- 
losophy) ;  sometimes  they  express  their  thoughts  in  a  crowd  ot 
words  and  the  most  intolerable  diffuseness,  as  if  it  were  neces- 
sary to  make  a  sensation  in  order  to  make  the  profound  meaning 
of  their  phrases  intelligible — while  it  is  quite  a  simple  idea  if  not 
a  trivial  one  (examples  without  number  are  suppUed  in  Fichte's 
popular  works  and  in  the  philosophical  pamphlets  of  a  hundred 
other  miserable  blockheads  that  are  not  worth  mentioning),  or 
else  they  endeavor  to  use  a  certain  style  in  writing  which  it  has 
pleased  them  to  adopt — for  example,  a  style  that  is  so  thoroughly 
Kar  i^o^^v  profound  and  scientific,  where  one  is  tortured  to 
death  by  the  narcotic  effect  of  long-spun  periods  that  are  void 
of  all  thought  (examples  of  this  are  specially  supplied  by  those 
most  impertinent  of  all  mortals,  the  Hegelians  in  their  Hegel 
newspaper  commonly  known  as  "  Jahrbucher  der  wissenschaft- 
lichen  Literatur  ")  ;  or  again,  they  aim  at  an  intellectual  style 
where  it  seems  then  as  if  they  wish  to  go  crazy,  and  so  on.  All 
such  efforts  whereby  they  try  to  postpone  the  nascetur  ridiculus 
inns  make  it  frequently  difficult  to  understand  what  they  really 
mean.  Moreover,  they  write  down  words,  nay,  whole  periods, 
which  mean  nothing  in  themselves,  in  the  hope,  however,  that 
someone  else  will  understand  something  from  them.  Nothing- 
else  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  such  endeavors  but  the  inexhaustible 
attempt  which  is  always  venturing  on  new  paths,  to  sell  words 
for  thoughts,  and  by  means  of  new  expressions,  or  expressions 
used  in  a  new  sense,  turns  of  phrases  and  combinations  of  all 
kinds,  to  produce  the  appearance  of  intellect  in  order  to  com- 
pensate for  the  want  of  it  which  is  so  painfully  felt.  It  is 
amusing  to  see  how,  with  this  aim  in  view,  first  this  mannerism 
and  then  that  is  tried ;  these  they  intend  to  represent  the  mask 
of  intellect :  this  mask  may  possibly  deceive  the  inexperienced 


230 


SCHOPENHAUER 


for  a  while,  until  it  is  recognized  as  being  nothing  but  a  dead 
mask,  when  it  is  laughed  at  and  exchanged  for  another. 

We  find  a  writer  of  this  kind  sometimes  writing  in  a  dithyram- 
bic  style,  as  if  he  were  intoxicated ;  at  other  times,  nay,  on  the 
very  next  page,  he  will  be  high-sounding,  severe,  and  deeply 
learned,  prolix  to  the  last  degree  of  dulness,  and  cutting  every- 
thing very  small,  like  the  late  Christian  Wolf,  only  in  a  modern 
garment.  The  mask  of  unintelligibility  holds  out  the  longest ; 
this  is  only  in  Germany,  however,  where  it  was  introduced  by 
Fichte,  perfected  by  Schelling,  and  attained  its  highest  climax 
finally  in  Hegel,  always  with  the  happiest  results.  And  yet 
nothing  is  easier  than  to  write  so  that  no  one  can  understand ; 
on  the  other  hand,  nothing  is  more  difficult  than  to  express 
learned  ideas  so  that  everyone  must  understand  them.  All  the 
arts  I  have  cited  above  are  superfluous  if  the  writer  really  pos- 
sesses any  intellect,  for  it  allows  a  man  to  show  himself  as  he  is 
and  verifies  for  all  time  what  Horace  said:  " Scribendi  recte 
sapere  est  et  principium  et  fons." 

But  this  class  of  authors  is  like  certain  workers  in  metal, 
who  try  a  hundred  different  compositions  to  take  the  place  of 
gold,  which  is  the  only  metal  that  can  never  have  a  substitute. 
On  the  contrary,  there  is  nothing  an  author  should  guard 
against  more  than  the  apparent  endeavor  to  show  more  intellect 
than  he  has ;  because  this  rouses  the  suspicion  in  the  reader  that 
he  has  very  little,  since  a  man  always  affects  something,  be  its 
nature  what  it  may,  that  he  does  not  really  possess.  And  this  is 
why  it  is  praise  to  an  author  to  call  him  naive,  for  it  signifies 
that  he  may  show  himself  as  he  is.  Tn  general,  naivete  attracts, 
while  anything  that  is  unnatural  everywhere  repels.  We  also 
find  that  every  true  thinker  endeavors  to  express  his  thoughts  as 
purely,  clearly,  definitely,  and  concisely  as  ever  possible.  This 
is  why  simplicity  has  always  been  looked  upon  as  a  token,  not 
only  of  truth,  but  also  of  genius.  Style  receives  its  beauty 
from  the  thought  expressed,  while  with  those  writers  who  only 
pretend  to  think  it  is  their  thoughts  that  are  said  to  be  fine  be- 
cause of  their  style.  Style  is  merely  the  silhouette  of  thought ; 
and  to  write  in  a  vague  or  bad  style  means  a  stupid  or  confused 
mind. 

Hence,  the  first  rule — nay,  this  in  itself  is  almost  sufficient 
for  a  good  style — is  this,  that  the  author  should  have  something 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND   STYLE  231 

to  say.  Ah !  this  impHes  a  great  deal.  The  neglect  of  this 
rule  is  a  fundamental  characteristic  of  the  philosophical,  and 
generally  speaking  of  all  the  reflective  authors  in  Germany, 
especially  since  the  time  of  Fichte.  It  is  obvious  that  all  these 
writers  wish  to  appear  to  have  something  to  say,  while  they 
have  nothing  to  say.  This  mannerism  was  introduced  by  the 
pseudo-philosophers  of  the  universities  and  may  be  discerned 
everywhere,  even  among  the  first  literary  notabilities  of  the 
age.  It  is  the  mother  of  that  forced  and  vague  style  which 
seems  to  have  two,  nay,  many  meanings,  as  well  as  of  that 
prolix  and  ponderous  style,  le  stile  empesc;  and  of  that  no  less 
useless  bombastic  style,  and  finally  of  that  mode  of  concealing 
the  most  awful  poverty  of  thought  under  a  babble  of  inexhausti- 
ble chatter  that  resembles  a  clacking  mill  and  is  just  as  stupefy- 
ing :  one  may  read  for  hours  together  without  getting  hold  of 
a  single  clearly  defined  and  definite  idea.  The  "  Halleschen," 
afterwards  called  the  "  Deutschen  Jahrbiicher,"  furnishes  al- 
most throughout  excellent  examples  of  this  style  of  writing. 
The  Germans,  by  the  way,  from  force  of  habit  read  page  after 
page  of  all  kinds  of  such  verbiage  without  getting  any  definite 
idea  of  what  the  author  really  means:  they  think  it  all  very 
proper  and  do  not  discover  that  he  is  writing  merely  for  the 
sake  of  writing.  On  the  other  hand,  a  good  author  who  is 
rich  in  ideas  soon  gains  the  reader's  credit  of  having  really  and 
truly  something  to  say;  and  this  gives  the  intelligent  reader 
patience  to  follow  him  attentively.  An  author  of  this  kind  will 
always  express  himself  in  the  simplest  and  most  direct  man- 
ner, for  the  very  reason  that  he  really  has  something  to  say ; 
because  he  wishes  to  awaken  in  the  reader  the  same  idea  he 
has  in  his  own  mind  and  no  other.  Accordingly  he  will  be  able 
to  say  with  Boileau — 

"  Mapensde  au  grand  jour  partout  s'offre  et  s^  expose  ^ 
Et  man  vers,  bien  ou  mal,  dit  totijours  quelque  chose  ;  " 

while  of  those  previously  described  writers  it  may  be  said,  in 
the  words  of  the  same  poet,  "  et  qui,  parlant  hcaucoitp,  ne  disent 
jamais  rien."  It  is  also  a  characteristic  of  such  writers  to  avoid, 
if  it  is  possible,  expressing  themselves  definitely,  so  that  they 
may  be  always  able  in  case  of  need  to  get  out  of  a  difficulty; 
this  is  why  they  always  choose  the  more  abstract  expressions: 


232 


SCHOPENHAUER 


while  people  of  intellect  choose  the  more  concrete ;  because  the 
latter  bring  the  matter  closer  to  view,  which  is  the  source  of  all 
evidence.  This  preference  for  abstract  expressions  may  be  con- 
firmed by  numerous  examples:  a  specially  ridiculous  example 
is  the  following.  Throughout  German  literature  of  the  last 
ten  years  we  find  "  to  condition  "  almost  everywhere  used  in 
place  of  "  to  cause  "  or  "  to  effect."  Since  it  is  more  abstract 
and  indefinite  it  says  less  than  it  implies,  and  consequently 
leaves  a  little  back  door  open  to  please  those  whose  secret  con- 
sciousness of  their  own  incapacity  inspires  them  with  a  con- 
tinual fear  of  all  definite  expressions.  While  with  other  people 
it  is  merely  the  effect  of  that  national  tendency  to  immediately 
imitate  everything  that  is  stupid  in  literature  and  wicked  in  life ; 
this  is  shown  in  either  case  by  the  quick  way  in  which  it  spreads. 
The  Englishman  depends  on  his  own  judgment  both  in  what  he 
writes  and  what  he  does,  but  this  applies  less  to  the  German 
than  to  any  other  nation.  In  consequence  of  the  state  of  things 
referred  to,  the  words  "  to  cause  "  and  "  to  effect  "  have  almost 
entirely  disappeared  from  the  literature  of  the  last  ten  years, 
and  people  everywhere  talk  of  "  to  condition."  The  fact  is 
worth  mentioning  because  it  is  characteristically  ridiculous. 
Every-day  authors  are  only  half  conscious  when  they  write,  a 
fact  which  accounts  for  their  want  of  intellect  and  the  tedious- 
ness  of  their  writings  ;  they  do  not  really  themselves  understand 
the  meaning  of  their  own  words,  because  they  take  ready-made 
words  and  learn  them.  Hence  they  combine  whole  phrases 
more  than  words — phrases  banales.  This  accounts  for  that 
obviously  characteristic  want  of  clearly  defined  thought ;  in  fact, 
they  lack  the  die  that  stamps  their  thoughts,  they  have  no  clear 
thought  of  their  own ;  in  place  of  it  we  find  an  indefinite,  ob- 
scure interweaving  of  words,  current  phrases,  worn-out  terms 
of  speech,  and  fashionable  expressions.  The  result  is  that 
their  foggy  kind  or  writing  is  like  print  that  has  been  done  with 
old  type.  On  the  other  hand,  intelligent  people  really  speak  to 
us  in  their  writings,  and  this  is  why  they  are  able  to  both  move 
and  entertain  us.  It  is  only  intelligent  writers  who  place  in- 
dividual words  together  with  a  full  consciousness  of  their  use 
and  select  them  with  deliberation.  Hence  their  style  of  writing 
bears  the  same  relation  to  that  of  those  authors  described  above, 
as  a  picture  that  is  really  painted  docs  to  one  that  has  been 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND   STYLE  233 

executed  with  stencil.  In  the  first  instance  every  word,  just  as 
every  stroke  of  the  brush,  has  some  special  significance,  while  in 
the  other  ev«rything  is  done  mechanically.  The  same  distinction 
may  be  observed  in  music.  For  it  is  the  omnipresence  of  in- 
tellect that  always  and  everywhere  characterizes  the  works  of 
the  genius ;  and  analogous  to  this  is  Lichtenberg's  observation, 
namely,  that  Garrick's  soul  was  omnipresent  in  all  the  muscles 
of  his  body.  With  regard  to  the  tediousness  of  the  writings 
referred  to  above,  it  is  to  be  observed  in  general  that  there  are 
two  kinds  of  tediousness — an  objective  and  a  subjective.  The 
objective  form  of  tediousness  springs  from  the  deficiency  of 
which  we  have  been  speaking — that  is  to  say,  where  the  author 
has  no  perfectly  clear  thought  or  knowledge  to  communicate. 
For  if  a  writer  possesses  any  clear  thought  or  knowledge  it  will 
be  his  aim  to  communicate  it,  and  he  will  work  with  this  en3  in 
view  ;  consequently  the  ideas  he  furnishes  are  everywhere  clearly 
defined,  so  that  he  is  neither  diffuse,  unmeaning,  nor  confused, 
and  consequently  not  tedious.  Even  if  his  fundamental  idea 
is  wrong,  yet  in  such  a  case  it  will  be  clearly  thought  out  and 
well  pondered ;  in  other  words,  it  is  at  least  formally  correct, 
and  the  writing  is  always  of  some  value.  While,  for  the  same 
reason,  a  work  that  is  objectively  tedious  is  at  all  times  without 
value.  Again,  subjective  tediousness  is  merely  relative:  tHis 
is  because  the  reader  is  not  interested  in  the  subject  of  the  work, 
and  that  what  he  takes  an  interest  in  is  of  a  very  limited  nature. 
The  most  excellent  work  may  therefore  be  tedious  subjectively 
to  this  or  that  person,  just  as,  vice  versa,  the  worst  work  may 
be  subjectively  diverting  to  this  or  that  person :  because  he  is 
interested  in  either  the  subject  or  the  writer  of  the  book. 

It  would  be  of  general  service  to  German  authors  if  they 
discerned  that  while  a  man  should,  if  possible,  think  like  a 
great  mind,  he  should  speak  the  same  language  as  every  other 
person.  Men  should  use  common  words  to  say  uncommon 
things,  but  they  do  the  reverse.  We  find  them  trying  to  envelop 
trivial  ideas  in  grand  words  and  to  dress  their  very  ordinary 
thoughts  in  the  most  extraordinary  expressions  and  the  most 
outlandish,  artificial,  and  rarest  phrases.  Their  sentences  per- 
petually stalk  about  on  stilts.  With  regard  to  their  delight  in 
bombast,  and  to  their  writing  generally  in  a  grand,  puffed-up. 

unreal,  hyperbolical,  and  acrobatic  style,  their  prototype  is  Pis- 

K— Vol.  60 


234  SCHOPENHAUER 

tol,  who  was  once  impatiently  requested  by  Falstaff,  his  friend, 
to  "  say  what  you  have  to  say,  Hke  a  man  of  this  world !"  ^ 

There  is  no  expression  in  the  German  language  exactly  cor- 
responding to  stile  empese;  but  the  thing  itself  is  all  the  more 
prevalent.  When  combined  with  unnaturalness  it  is  in  works 
what  affected  gravity,  grandness,  and  unnaturalness  are  in 
social  intercourse ;  and  it  is  just  as  intolerable.  Poverty  of  in- 
tellect is  fond  of  wearing  this  dress;  just  as  stupid  people  in 
every-day  life  are  fond  of  assuming  gravity  and  formality. 

A  man  who  writes  in  this  prezios  style  is  like  a  person  who 
dresses  himself  up  to  avoid  being  mistaken  for  or  confounded 
with  the  mob ;  a  danger  which  a  gentleman,  even  in  his  worst 
clothes,  does  not  run.  Hence  just  as  a  plebeian  is  recognized 
by  a  certain  display  in  his  dress  and  his  tire  a  quatre  epingles, 
so  is  an  ordinary  writer  recognized  by  his  style. 

If  a  man  has  something  to  say  that  is  worth  saying,  he  need 
not  envelop  it  in  affected  expressions,  involved  phrases,  and 
enigmatical  innuendoes ;  but  he  may  rest  assured  that  by  ex- 
pressing himself  in  a  simple,  clear,  and  naive  manner  he  will 
not  fail  to  produce  the  right  effect.  A  man  who  makes  use  of 
such  artifices  as  have  been  alluded  to  Betrays  his  poverty  of 
ideas,  mind,  and  knowledge. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  a  mistake  to  attempt  to  write  exactly  as 
one  speaks.  Every  style  of  writing  should  bear  a  certain  trace 
of  relationship  with  the  monumental  style,  which  is,  indeed, 
the  ancestor  of  all  styles ;  so  that  to  write  as  one  speaks  is  just 
as  faulty  as  to  do  the  reverse,  that  is  to  say,  to  try  and  speak 
as  one  writes.  This  makes  the  author  pedantic,  and  at  the 
same  time  difficult  to  understand. 

Obscurity  and  vagueness  of  expression  are  at  all  times  and 
everywhere  a  very  bad  sign.  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hun- 
dred they  arise  from  vagueness  of  thought,  which,  in  its  turn, 
is  almost  always  fundamentally  discordant,  inconsistent,  and 
therefore  wrong.  When  a  right  thought  springs  up  in  the 
mind  it  strives  after  clearness  of  expression,  and  it  soon  attains 
it,  for  clear  thought  easily  finds  its  appropriate  expression.  A 
man  who  is  capable  of  thinking  can  express  himself  at  all  times 
in  clear,  comprehensible,    and    unambiguous  words.     Those 

'  [Schopenhauer  here  gives  an   example  of  this  bombastic  style  which  would 
be  of  little  interest  to  English  readers.] 


ON    AUTHORSHIP   AND    STYLE  235 

writers  who  construct  difficult,  obscure,  involved,  and  ambigu- 
ous phrases  most  certainly  do  not  rightly  know  what  it  is  they 
wish  to  say :  they  have  only  a  dull  consciousness  of  it,  which 
is  still  struggling  to  put  itself  into  thought ;  they  also  often 
wish  to  conceal  from  themselves  and  other  people  that  in  reality 
they  have  nothing  to  say.  Like  Fichte,  Schelling,  and  Hegel, 
they  wish  to  appear  to  know  what  they  do  not  know,  to  think 
what  they  do  not  think,  and  to  say  what  they  do  not  say. 

Will  a  man,  then,  who  has  something  real  to  impart  endeavor 
to  say  it  in  a  clear  or  an  indistinct  way  ?  Quintilian  has  already 
said,  "  plerumque  accidit  ut  faciliora  sint  ad  intelligendum  et 
hicidiora  multo,  qtice  a  doctissimo  quoque  dicuntur.  .  .  . 
Erit  ergo  etiam  ohscurior,  quo  quisque  deterior." 

A  man's  way  of  expressing  himself  should  not  be  enigmatical, 
but  he  should  know  whether  he  has  something  to  say  or  whether 
he  has  not.  It  is  an  uncertainty  of  expression  which  makes 
German  writers  so  dull.  The  only  exceptional  cases  are  those 
where  a  man  wishes  to  express  something  that  is  in  some  respect 
of  an  illicit  nature.  As  anything  that  is  far-fetched  generally 
produces  the  reverse  of  what  the  writer  has  aimed  at,  so  do 
words  serve  to  make  thought  comprehensible ;  but  only  up  to  a 
certain  point.  If  words  are  piled  up  beyond  this  point  they 
make  the  thought  that  is  being  communicated  more  and  more 
obscure.  To  hit  that  point  is  the  problem  of  style  and  a  matter 
of  discernment;  for  every  superfluous  word  prevents  its  pur- 
pose being  carried  out.  Voltaire  means  this  when  he  says: 
"  L'adjectif  est  I'cnnemi  du  substantif."  (But,  truly,  many  au- 
thors try  to  hide  their  poverty  of  thought  under  a  superfluity  of 
words.) 

Accordingly,  all  prolixity  and  all  binding  together  of  un- 
meaning observations  that  are  not  worth  reading  should  be 
avoided.  A  writer  must  be  sparing  with  the  reader's  time, 
concentration,  and  patience ;  in  this  way  he  makes  him  believe 
that  what  he  has  before  him  is  worth  his  careful  reading,  and 
will  repay  the  trouble  he  has  spent  upon  it.  It  is  always  better 
to  leave  out  something  that  is  good  than  to  write  down  some- 
thing that  is  not  worth  saying.  Hesiod's  7r\eoy  17/zKru  Trai/ro?* 
finds  its  right  application.  In  fact,  not  to  say  everything !  Le 
secret  pour  etre  ennuyeiix,  c'est  de  tout  dire.     Therefore,  if 

•  "  Opera  et  dies,"  v.  40. 


236  SCHOPENHAUER 

possible,  the  quintessence  only  !  the  chief  matter  only !  nothing 
that  the  reader  would  think  for  himself.  The  use  of  many 
words  in  order  to  express  little  thought  is  everywhere  the  in- 
fallible sign  of  mediocrity ;  while  to  clothe  much  thought  in  a 
few  words'  is  the  infallible  sign  of  distinguished  minds. 

Truth  that  is  naked  is  the  most  beautiful,  and  the  simpler 
its  expression  the  deeper  is  the  impression  it  makes ;  this  is 
partly  because  it  gets  unobstructed  hold  of  the  hearer's  mind 
without  his  being  distracted  by  secondary  thoughts,  and  partly 
because  he  feels  that  here  he  is  not  being  corrupted  or  deceived 
by  the  arts  of  rhetoric,  but  that  the  whole  effect  is  got  from  the 
thing  itself.  For  instance,  what  declamation  on  the  emptiness 
of  human  existence  could  be  more  impressive  than  Job's: 
"  Homo,  natus  de  muliere,  brevi  vivit  tempore,  repletus  multis 
miseriis,  qui,  tanquam  Hos,  egreditiir  et  conteritur,  et  fugit 
velut  umbra."  It  is  for  this  very  reason  that  the  naive  poetry 
of  Goethe  is  so  incomparably  greater  than  the  rhetorical  of 
Schiller.  This  is  also  why  many  folk-songs  have  so  great  an 
effect  upon  us.  An  author  should  guard  against  using  all  un- 
necessary rhetorical  adornment,  all  useless  amplification,  and 
in  general,  just  as  in  architecture  he  should  guard  against  an 
excess  of  decoration,  all  superfluity  of  expression — in  other 
words,  he  must  aim  at  chastity  of  style.  Everything  that  is  re- 
dundant has  a  harmful  effect.  The  law  of  simplicity  and 
naivete  applies  to  all  fine  art',  for  it  is  compatible  with  what  is 
most  sublime. 

True  brevity  of  expression  consists  in  a  man  only  saying 
what  is  worth  saying,  while  avoiding  all  diffuse  explanations 
of  things  which  everyone  can  think  out  for  himself ;  that  is,  it 
consists  in  his  correctly  distinguishing  between  what  is  neces- 
sary and  what  is  superfluous.  On  the  other  hand,  one  should 
never  sacrifice  clearness,  to  say  nothing  of  grammar,  for  the 
sake  of  being  brief.  To  impoverish  the  expression  of  a  thought, 
or  to  obscure  or  spoil  the  meaning  of  a  period  for  the  sake  of 
using  fewer  words  shows  a  lamentable  want  of  judgment.  And 
this  is  precisely  what  that  false  brevity  nowadays  in  vogue  is 
trying  to  do,  for  writers  not  only  leave  out  words  that  are  to  the 
purpose,  but  even  grammatical  and  logical  essentials. 

Subjectivity,  which  is  an  error  of  style  in  German  literature, 
is,  through  the  deteriorated  condition  of  literature  and  neglect 


ON   AUTHORSHIP   AND    STYLE 


237 


of  old  languages,  becoming  more  common.  By  subjectivity 
I  mean  when  a  writer  thinks  it  sufficient  for  himself  to  know 
what  he  means  and  wants  to  say,  and  it  is  left  to  the  reader 
to  discover  what  is  meant.  Without  troubling  himself  about 
his  reader,  he  writes  as  if  he  were  holding  a  monologue  ;  where- 
as it  should  be  a  dialogue,  and,  moreover,  a  dialogue  in  which 
he  must  express  himself  all  the  more  clearly  as  the  questions  of 
the  reader  cannot  be  heard.  And  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that 
style  should  not  be  subjective,  but  objective,  and  for  it  to  be  ob- 
jective the  words  must  be  written  in  such  a  way  as  to  directly 
compel  the  reader  to  think  precisely  the  same  as  the  author 
thought.  This  will  only  be  the  case  when  the  author  has  borne  in 
mind  that  thoughts,  inasmuch  as  they  follow  the  law  of  gravity, 
pass  more  easily  from  head  to  paper  than  from  paper  to  head. 
Therefore  the  journey  from  paper  to  head  must  be  helped  by 
every  means  at  his  command.  When  he  does  this  his  words  have 
a  purely  objective  effect,  like  that  of  a  completed  oil  painting; 
while  the  subjective  style  is  not  much  more  certain  in  its  effect 
than  spots  on  the  wall,  and  it  is  only  the  man  whose  fantasy  is 
accidentally  aroused  by  them  that  sees  figures ;  other  people 
only  see  blurs.  The  difference  referred  to  applies  to  every 
style  of  writing  as  a  whole,  and  it  is  also  often  met  with  in 
particular  instances ;  for  example,  I  read  in  a  book  that  has 
just  been  published  :  "I  have  not  written  to  increase  the  number 
of  existing  books."  This  means  exactly  the  opposite  of  what 
the  writer  had  in  view,  and  is  nonsense  into  the  bargain. 

A  man  who  writes  carelessly  at  once  proves  that  he  himself 
puts  no  great  value  on  his  own  thoughts.  For  it  is  only  by 
being  convinced  of  the  truth  and  importance  of  our  thoughts 
that  there  arises  in  us  the  inspiration  necessary  for  the  inex- 
haustible patience  to  discover  the  clearest,  finest,  and  most  pow- 
erful expression  for  them ;  just  as  one  puts  holy  relics  or  price- 
less works  of  art  in  silvern  or  golden  receptacles.  It  was  for 
this  reason  that  the  old  writers — whose  thoughts,  expressed  in 
their  own  words,  have  lasted  for  thousands  of  years  and  hence 
bear  the  honored  title  of  classics — wrote  with  universal  care. 
Plato,  indeed,  is  said  to  have  written  the  introduction  to  his 
"  Republic  "  seven  times  with  different  modifications.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  Germans  are  conspicuous  above  all  other  nations 
for  neglect  of  style  in  writing,  as  they  are  for  neglect  of  dress, 


838  SCHOPENHAUER 

both  kinds  of  slovenliness  which  have  their  source  in  the 
German  national  character.  Just  as  neglect  of  dress  betrays 
contempt  for  the  society  in  which  a  man  moves,  so  does  a 
hasty,  careless,  and  bad  style  show  shocking  disrespect  for 
the  reader,  who  then  rightly  punishes  it  by  not  reading  the 
book. 


THE    ACADEMY    OF    SYLLOGRAPHS 


BY 


GIACOMO     LEOPARD! 


GIACOMO   LEOPARDI 

1798— 1837 

Giacomo  Leopardi  was  born  in  1798  in  the  ancestral  mansion  of 
his  family  at  Recanati,  a  small  town  not  far  from  Ancona,  in  Italy. 
Both  his  parents  were  of  ancient  and  patrician  lineage,  but  of  im- 
paired worldly  fortunes.  They  appear  never  to  have  understood  their 
gifted  son,  and  much  of  his  lifelong  misery  was  due  to  their  narrow- 
ness and  severity.  During  his  boyhood  Leopardi  was  taught  by  the 
two  priests  of  his  village,  but  at  fourteen  he  had  mastered  all  they 
could  teach  him  and  had  begun  to  absorb  a  vast  store  of  erudition  by 
omnivorous  reading  in  his  father's  library.  The  amazing  industry 
with  which  he  read  was  only  equalled  by  his  tenacity  of  memory.  While 
in  his  teens  he  had  mastered  Latin,  Greek,  English,  French,  and 
Spanish,  and  had  acquired  a  considerable  knowledge  of  Hebrew.  All 
this  was  the  more  remarkable,  as  he  was  largely  self-taught.  In 
1814  he  wrote  a  revision  of  Porphyry's  "  Life  of  Plotinus,"  with  a 
commentary  which  was  found  serviceable  by  the  ablest  scholars  of  the 
day.  In  1815  he  wrote  a  treatise  on  "  The  Popular  Errors  of  the 
Ancients,"  in  which  he  displayed  a  profound  erudition.  During  the 
next  few  years  he  wrote  many  volumes  of  philological  research  and 
criticism,  but  his  constitution,  never  strong,  broke  down  under  the 
excessive  strain  this  work  involved.  From  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was 
a  hopeless  invalid;  at  times  even  his  eyesight  failed  him,  while  his 
mental  tortures  were  terribly  acute.  His  parents,  meanwhile,  were 
deaf  to  his  appeals  to  be  permitted  to  leave  Recanati,  until,  goaded 
to  madness,  he  actually  ran  away.  He  was  soon  brought  back,  and  fell 
for  a  time  into  a  stupor  of  despair.  At  length,  in  1822,  his  father  per- 
mitted him  to  visit  Rome,  where  he  was  cordially  received  by  men 
of  letters.  The  next  ten  years  he  devoted  to  poetry  and  philosophy, 
residing  for  varying  periods  at  Bologna,  Pisa,  Florence,  Milan,  and 
Recanati.  In  1830  he  was  elected  an  academician  of  the  Accademia 
della  Crusca.  Soon  afterwards  he  settled  in  Naples,  where  some  of  his 
best  works  were  written.  For  a  time  his  health  improved ;  but  he  suf- 
fered a  relapse  in  1836,  and  died  the  following  year.  His  grave  is  not 
far  from  the  reputed  resting-place  of  Vergil,  in  a  suburb  of  Naples. 

As  a  poet,  Leopardi  is  universally  recoginzed  as  one  of  the  greatest 
of  modern  Italy.  Some  of  his  odes  rank  among  the  most  finished  in 
all  literature,  and  all  his  poetical  writings  are  distinguished  for  a 
felicity  of  expression  and  a  perfection  in  style  that  raise  them  to  the 
rank  of  masterpieces.  His  most  celebrated  prose  works  are  his  "  Dia- 
logues" and  "  Thoughts."  "  The  Academy  of  Syllographs  "  is  a  repre- 
sentative example  of  his  work  as  an  essayist  and  gives  an  excellent  idea 
of  his  prose  style,  which  is  noted  for  its  simplicity  and  chasteness,  and 
is  on  a  par  with  the  excellence  of  his  poetry. 


240 


THE  ACADEMY  OF  SYLLOGRAPHS 

THE  Academy  of  Syllographs,ever  mindful  of  the  primary 
aim  of  its  constitution,  and  iiaving  always  at  heart  the 
promotion  of  the  public  good,  has  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  could  not  more  effectually  conduce  to  this  end  than 
by  aiding  in  the  development  of  the  distinguishing  tendencies 
of  what  an  illustrious  poet  has  characterized  as  the  happy  age 
in  which  we  live. 

For  this  reason  it  has  diligently  diagnosed  the  genius  of  the 
present  time,  and  after  prolonged  and  searching  investigation 
it  has  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  the  present  age  ought  to 
be  characterized  as  preeminently  the  age  of  machines.  And 
this  not  only  because  the  men  of  to-day  live  and  move  more 
mechanically  than  did  those  of  any  former  period,  but  also  by 
reason  of  the  infinite  number  of  mechanical  contrivances  con- 
tinually being  invented,  and  daily  being  applied  to  so  many 
various  purposes,  that  nowadays  it  may  almost  be  said  that 
human  affairs  and  all  the  operations  of  life  are  governed  and 
regulated,  not  by  men  at  all,  but  by  machines. 

This  feature  of  the  age  is  hailed  by  the  Academy  with  pe- 
culiar satisfaction,  not  only  in  view  of  the  manifest  general 
convenience  which  flows  from  it,  but  also  for  two  special  rea- 
sons of  a  most  important  character,  though  not  generally 
recognized  by  society.  In  the  first  place,  the  Academy  feels 
confident  that  in  course  of  time  the  agency  of  mechanism  may 
be  so  extended  as  to  embrace  not  only  the  material  but  the 
moral  world ;  and  that,  just  as  mechanical  inventions  now  pro- 
tv.ct  us  from  lightning  and  other  atmospherical  disturbances, 
so,  in  time,  some  sort  of  apparatus  may  be  invented  calculated 
to  shield  us  from  envy,  calumny,  perfidy,  and  fraud;  some 
species  of  moral  lightning-conductors,  so  to  speak,  which  may 
protect  us  from  the  effects  of  egotism,  from  the  dominion  of 
mediocrity,  from  the  arrogance  of  bloated  imbecility,  from  the 

241 


242  LEOPARDI 

ribaldry  of  the  base,  from  the  cynical  pessimism  of  pedants, 
from  the  indifferentism  engendered  by  over-culture,  and  from 
numerous  other  such-like  inconveniences,  which  of  late  have 
become  as  difficult  to  ward  off  as  formerly  were  the  lightnings 
and  storms  of  the  physical  world. 

The  next  consideration  just  referred  to  is  this ;  and  it  is  one 
of  paramount  importance.  It  is  well  known  that  philosophers 
have  come  to  despair  of  remedying  the  manifold  defects  of  hu- 
manity, and  are  convinced  that  it  would  be  more  difficult  to 
amend  these  than  it  would  be  to  recast  things  on  an  entirely 
fresh  basis,  and  to  substitute  an  entirely  fresh  agency  as  the 
motive  power  of  life.  The  Academy  of  Syllographs,  concur- 
ring in  this  opinion,  hold  that  it  would  be  in  the  highest  de- 
gree expedient  that  men  should  retire  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  conduct  of  the  business  of  the  world,  and  should  gradually 
give  place  to  mechanical  agency  for  the  direction  of  human 
affairs.  Accordingly,  resolved  to  contribute  as  far  as  lies  in 
its  power  to  this  consummation,  it  has  determined  to  offer 
three  prizes  to  be  awarded  to  the  persons  who  shall  invent  the 
best  examples  of  the  three  machines  now  to  be  described. 

The  scope  and  object  of  the  first  of  these  automata  shall  be 
to  represent  the  person  and  discharge  the  functions  of  a 
friend  who  shall  not  calumniate  or  jeer  at  his  absent  associate ; 
who  shall  not  fail  to  take  his  part  when  he  hears  him  censured 
or  ridiculed ;  who  shall  not  prefer  a  reputation  for  wit,  and  the 
applause  of  men,  to  his  duty  to  friendship ;  who  shall  never, 
from  love  of  gossip  or  mere  ostentation  of  superior  knowledge, 
divulge  a  secret  committed  to  his  keeping;  who  shall  not  abuse 
the  intimacy  or  confidence  of  his  fellow  in  order  to  supplant 
or  surpass  him ;  who  shall  harbor  no  envy  against  his  friend ; 
who  shall  guard  his  interests  and  help  to  repair  his  losses,  and 
shall  be  prompt  to  answer  his  call,  and  minister  to  his  needs 
more  substantially  than  by  empty  professions. 

In  the  construction  of  this  piece  of  mechanism  it  will  be  well 
to  study,  among  other  things,  the  treatise  on  friendship  by 
Cicero,  as  well  as  that  of  Madame  de  Lambert.  The  Academy 
is  of  opinion  that  the  manufacture  of  such  a  machine  ought  not 
to  prove  impracticable  or  even  particularly  difficult,  for,  be- 
sides the  automata  of  Rcgiomontanus  and  A^aucanson,  there 
was  at  one  time  exhibited  in  London  a  mechanical  figure  which 


THE   ACADEMY    OF   SYLLOGRAPHS  243 

drew  portraits,  and  wrote  to  dictation ;  while  there  have  been 
more  than  one  example  of  such  machines  capable  of  playing 
at  chess.  Now,  in  the  opinion  of  many  philosophers  human 
life  is  but  a  game ;  nay,  some  hold  that  it  is  more  shallow  and 
more  frivolous  than  many  other  games,  and  that  the  principles 
of  chess,  for  example,  are  more  in  accordance  with  reason,  and 
that  its  various  moves  are  more  governed  by  wisdom,  than  are 
the  actions  of  mankind ;  while  we  have  it  on  the  authority  of 
Pindar  that  human  action  is  no  more  substantial  than  the 
shadow  of  a  dream ;  and  this  being  so,  the  intelligence  of  an 
automaton  ought  to  prove  quite  equal  to  the  discharge  of  the 
functions  which  have  just  been  described. 

As  to  power  of  speech,  it  seems  unreasonable  to  doubt  that 
men  should  have  the  power  of  communicating  it  to  machines 
constructed  by  themselves,  seeing  that  this  may  be  said  to  have 
been  established  by  sundry  precedents,  such,  for  example,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  statue  of  Memnon,  and  of  the  human  head 
manufactured  by  Albertus  Magnus,  which  actually  became  so 
loquacious  that  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas,  losing  all  patience  with 
it,  smashed  it  to  pieces.  Then,  too,  there  was  the  instance  of 
the  parrot  of  Nevers,  though  it  was  a  living  creature ;  but  if  it 
could  be  taught  to  converse  reasonably,  how  much  more  may 
it  be  supposed  that  a  machine  devised  by  the  mind  of  man, 
and  constructed  by  his  hands,  should  do  as  much ;  while  it 
would  have  the  advantage  that  it  might  be  made  less  garrulous 
than  the  parrot  of  Nevers  or  the  head  of  Albertus,  and  there- 
fore it  need  not  irritate  its  acquaintances  and  provoke  them  to 
smash  it. 

The  inventor  of  the  best  example  of  such  a  machine  shall  be 
decorated  with  a  gold  medallion  of  four  hundred  zecchins  in 
^veight,  bearing  on  its  face  the  images  of  Pylades  and  Orestes, 
and  on  the  reverse  the  name  of  the  successful  competitor,  sur- 
rounded by  the  legend,  First  Realiser  of  the  Fables  of  Antiq- 
■aiity. 

The  second  machine  called  for  by  the  Academy  is  to  be  an 
artificial  steam  man,  so  constructed  and  regulated  as  to  per- 
form virtuous  and  magnanimous  actions.  The  Academy  is  of 
opinion  that  in  the  absence  of  all  other  adequate  motive  power 
to  that  end,  the  properties  of  steam  might  prove  effective  to 
inspire  an  automaton,  and  direct  it  to  the  attainment  of  virtue 


244  LEOPARDI 

and  true  glory.  The  inventor  who  shall  undertake  the  con- 
struction of  such  a  machine  should  study  the  poets  and  the 
writers  of  romance,  who  will  best  guide  him  as  to  the  quali- 
ties and  functions  most  essential  to  such  a  piece  of  mechanism. 
The  prize  shall  be  a  gold  medal  weighing  four  hundred  and 
fifty  zecchins,  bearing  on  its  obverse  a  figure  symbolical  of  the 
golden  age,  and  on  its  reverse  the  name  of  the  inventor,  with 
the  following  inscription  borrowed  from  the  fourth  eclogue  of 
Vergil : 

"Quo  Ferrea  Primum 
Desinet  Ac  Toto  Surget  Gens  Aurea  Mimdo." 

The  third  automaton  should  be  so  constituted  as  to  perform 
the  duties  of  woman  such  as  she  was  conceived  by  the  Count 
Baldassar  Castiglione,  and  described  by  him  in  his  treatise  en- 
titled "  The  Courtier,"  as  well  as  by  other  writers  in  other 
works  on  the  subject,  which  will  be  readily  found,  and  which, 
as  well  as  that  of  the  count,  will  have  to  be  carefully  consulted 
and  followed.  The  construction  of  a  machine  of  this  nature, 
too,  ought  not  to  appear  impossible  to  the  inventors  of  our 
time,  when  they  reflect  on  the  fact  that  in  the  most  ancient 
times,  and  times  destitute  of  science,  Pygmalion  was  able  to 
fabricate  for  himself,  with  his  own  hands,  a  wife  of  such  rare 
gifts  that  she  has  never  since  been  equalled  down  to  the  present 
day.  The  successful  inventor  of  this  machine  shall  be  re- 
warded with  a  gold  medal  weighing  five  hundred  zecchins, 
bearing  on  one  face  the  figure  of  the  Arabian  Phoenix  of  Metas- 
tasio,  couched  on  a  tree  of  a  European  species,  while  its  other 
side  will  bear  the  name  of  the  inventor,  with  the  title.  Inventor 
of  Faithful  Women  and  of  Conjugal  Happiness. 

Finally,  the  Academy  has  resolved  that  the  funds  necessary 
to  defray  the  expenses  incidental  to  this  competition  shall  be 
supplemented  by  all  that  was  found  in  the  purse  of  Diogenes, 
its  first  secretary,  together  with  one  of  the  three  golden  asses 
which  were  the  property  of  three  of  its  former  members — 
namely,  Apuleius,  Fircnzuola,  and  Machiavelli,  but  which 
came  into  the  possession  of  the  Academy  by  the  last  wills  and 
testaments  of  the  aforementioned,  as  duly  recorded  in  its  min- 
utes. 


ABOUT    CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI 


BY 


HONORE     DE     BALZAC 


HONORE   DE   BALZAC 
1799— 1850 

Born  at  Tours  in  1799,  Honore  de  Balzac  was  at  first  destined  for 
his  father's  profession,  the  law.  He  attended  the  College  of  Vendome, 
but  while  there  he  devoted  far  more  time  to  reading  fiction  and  mystic 
books  than  to  the  law.  He  then  attended  the  law  school  at  the  Sor- 
bonne,  and  studied  also  in  one  or  two  law  offices,  where  he  learned 
much  about  the  chicanery  of  disreputable  practice.  At  the  age  of 
twenty  he  gave  up  the  study  of  law  altogether  and  devoted  himself  to 
literature,  for  which  he  incurred  for  a  time  the  disfavor  of  his  father. 
Ten  years  of  poverty  followed,  during  which  he  found  "  three  sous 
for  bread,  two  for  milk,  and  three  for  fuel  "  sufficed  for  his  daily  sub- 
sistence. In  spite  of  his  untiring  activity,  however,  Balzac  produced 
nothing  during  these  years  that  received  or  deserved  recognition. 

It  was  not  until  1829  that  his  genius  found  its  true  expression.  In 
that  year  he  wrote  his  first  successful  book,  "  Le  dernier  Chouan," 
and  in  the  following  year  he  began  the  amazing  series  of  volumes  that 
followed  one  after  another  in  rapid  succession  down  to  the  year  of  his 
death.  This  series  he  has  been  pleased  to  call  the  "  Comedie  Humaine." 
His  manner  of  working  was  extraordinary.  It  is  said  of  him  that 
he  usually  retired  at  six  in  the  evening,  rising  to  begin  work  at  mid- 
night, and,  stimulated  by  copious  draughts  of  black  coffee,  worked 
without  intermission  till  noon.  Sometimes  he  would  shut  himself  up 
for  months  with  his  manuscripts,  seeing  no  one  except  his  printer. 
Then  again  for  months  he  would  disappear,  studying  at  first  hand  the 
life  he  sought  to  portray  in  his  pages,  in  all  its  varied  forms  and  sur- 
roundings. He  had  a  mania  for  speculative  enterprises,  prompted  by 
the  desire,  no  doubt,  to  be  relieved  of  the  anxiety  of  providing  im- 
mediate necessities.  For  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  however,  he  was 
burdened  with  a  mountain  of  debt.  At  last,  on  March  14,  1850,  he  mar- 
ried a  wealthy  Russian  lady,  and  now  a  rest  seemed  possible.  His  debts 
were  paid,  and  he  now  looked  forward  to  some  years  of  ease  and  con- 
tentment. His  iron  constitution,  sapped  by  overwork,  however,  suc- 
cumbed suddenly,  and  he  died  six  months  after  his  marriage  on  August 
18,  1850. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  in  brief  space  an  adequate  estimate  of  the 
literary  genius  of  Balzac.  In  his  writings  he  scales  every  height  and 
sounds  every  depth  of  human  character.  His  own  ambition  was  "  by 
infinite  patience  and  courage,  to  compose  for  the  France  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  that  history  of  morals  which  the  old  civilizations  of 
Rome,  Athens,  Memphis,  and  India  have  left  untold."  He  aimed  to 
give  a  complete  picture  of  human  life  of  his  day  in  all  its  phases.  "  The 
administration  of  government,  the  church,  the  army,  the  judiciary,  the 
aristocracy,  the  bourgeoisie,  the  proletariat,  the  peasantry ;  artists, 
journalists,  men  of  letters,  actors,  shopkeepers  of  every  station,  crim- 
inals," all  play  their  part  in  his  vast  "  Human  Comedy."  This  work 
he  left  in  a  sense  incomplete,  for,  when  death  ended  his  career,  he  had 
plans  in  his  fertile  brain  for  more  than  thirty  additional  novels.  But  as 
it  stands  it  is  a  lasting  monument  to  his  genius.  Of  his  novels  the 
most  powerful  are  "  Le  Pere  Goriot,"  "  Eugenie  Grandet."  "  La 
Cousinc  Bette,"  "  La  Peau  de  Chagrin,"  "  La  Recherche  de  FAbsolu," 
"  Seraphita,"  and  "  Le  Mcdecin  de  Campagnc."  His  short  stories, 
some  of  which  are  of  the  higiiest  literary  merit,  deserve  mention  here. 
Balzac's  style  is  at  times  clumsy  and  inelastic.  He  has  succeeded  never- 
theless in  giving  life  to  the  two  thousand  characters  that  move  in  his 
works.  And  his  great  genius,  in  leaving  us  what  is  without  question 
the  greatest  and  most  comprchciisive  ijortrayal  of  human  life  and  pas- 
sion ever  attempted,  cannot  be  disputed. 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE   MEDTCI 

WHEN  men  of  learning  are  struck  by  a  historical  blun- 
der, and  try  to  correct  it,  "  Paradox!  "  is  generally 
the  cry ;  but  to  those  who  thoroughly  examine  the 
history  of  modern  times  it  is  evident  that  historians  are  priv- 
ileged liars,  who  lend  their  pen  to  popular  beliefs,  exactly  as 
most  of  the  newspapers  of  the  day  express  nothing  but  the 
opinions  of  their  readers.^ 

Historical  independence  of  thought  has  been  far  less  con- 
spicuous among  lay  writers  than  among  the  priesthood.  The 
purest  light  thrown  on  history  has  come  from  the  Benedictines, 
one  of  the  glories  of  France — so  long,  that  is  to  say,  as  the 
interests  of  the  monastic  orders  are  not  in  question.  Since  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  some  great  and  learned  con- 
troversialists have  arisen  who,  struck  by  the  need  for  rectifying 
certain  popular  errors  to  which  historians  have  lent  credit,  have 
published  some  remarkable  works.  Thus  Monsieur  Launoy, 
nicknamed  the  Evicter  of  Saints,  made  ruthless  war  on  certain 
saints  who  have  sneaked  into  the  Church  Calendar.  Thus  the 
rivals  of  the  Benedictines,  the  too  little  known  members  of  the 
Academie  dcs  Inscriptions  et  Belles-lettres,  began  their  me- 
moires,  their  studious  notes,  full  of  patience,  erudition,  and 
logic,  on  certain  obscure  passages  of  history.  Thus  Voltaire, 
with  an  unfortunate  bias,  and  sadly  perverted  passions,  often 
brought  the  light  of  his  intellect  to  bear  on  historical  preju- 
dices. Diderot,  with  this  end  in  view,  began  a  book — much  too 
long — on  a  period  of  the  history  of  Imperial  Rome.  But  for 
the  French  Revolution,  criticism,  as  applied  to  history,  might 
perhaps  have  laid  up  the  materials  for  a  good  and  true  history 
of  France,  for  which  evidence  had  long  been  amassed  by  the 
great  French  Benedictines.  Louis  XVI,  a  man  of  clear  mind, 
himself  translated  the  English  work  which  so  much  agitated 

*  This  essay  was  written  as  an  in-  of  historical  novelettes  and  published  un» 
troduction  to  Balzac's  three  historical  der  the  peneral  title  of  "  Catherine  de  Med- 
•tudies  which  were  written  in  the  form       icis  E.xpliqufee." 

247 


248  BALZAC 

the  last  century,  in  which  Walpole  tried  to  explain  the  career 
of  Richard  III. 

How  is  it  that  persons  so  famous  as  kings  and  queens,  so  im- 
portant as  generals  of  great  armies,  become  objects  of  aversion 
or  derision?  Half  the  world  hesitates  between  the  song  on 
Marlborough  and  the  history  of  England,  as  they  do  between 
popular  tradition  and  history  as  concerning  Charles  IX. 

At  all  periods  when  great  battles  are  fought  between  the 
masses  and  the  authorities  the  populace  creates  an  ogresqiie 
figure — to  coin  a  word  for  the  sake  of  its  exactitude.  Thus  in 
our  own  time,  but  for  the  "  Memorials  of  Saint  Helena,"  and 
the  controversies  of  Royalists  and  Bonapartists,  there  was 
scarcely  a  chance  but  that  Napoleon  would  have  been  misun- 
derstood. Another  Abbe  de  Pradt  or  two,  a  few  more  news- 
paper articles,  and  Napoleon  from  an  emperor  would  have  be- 
come an  ogre. 

How  is  error  propagated  and  accredited?  The  mystery  is 
accomplished  under  our  eyes  without  our  discerning  the  pro- 
cess. No  one  suspects  how  greatly  printing  has  helped  to  give 
body  both  to  the  envy  which  attends  persons  in  high  places,  and 
to  the  popular  irony  which  sums  up  the  converse  view  of  every 
great  historical  fact.  For  instance,  every  bad  horse  in  France 
that  needs  flogging  is  called  after  the  Prince  de  Polignac ;  and 
so  who  knows  what  opinion  the  future  may  hold  as  to  the  Prince 
de  Polignac's  coup  d'etat?  In  consequence  of  a  caprice  of 
Shakespeare's — a  stroke  of  revenge  perhaps,  like  that  of  Beau- 
marchais  on  Bergasse  (Begearss) — Falstafif,  in  England,  is  a 
type  of  the  grotesque;  his  name  raises  a  laugh,  he  is  the  King 
of  Buffoons.  Now,  instead  of  being  enormously  fat,  ridicu- 
lously amorous,  vain,  old,  drunken,  and  a  corrupter  of  youth, 
Falstaff  was  one  of  the  most  important  figures  of  his  time,  a 
Knight  of  the  Garter,  holding  high  command.  At  the  date  of 
Henry  V's  accession  Falstaff  was  at  most  four-and-thirty. 
This  general,  who  distinguished  himself  at  the  battle  of  Agin- 
court,  where  he  took  the  Due  d'Alencon  prisoner,  in  1420  took 
the  town  of  Montcreau,  which  was  stoutly  defended.  Finally, 
under  Henry  VI,  he  beat  ten  thousand  Frenchmen  with  fifteen 
hundred  men  who  were  dropping  with  fatigue  and  hunger.  So 
much  for  valor ! 

If  we  turn  to  literature,  Rabelais,  among  the  French,  a  sober 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  249 

man  who  drank  notliing  but  water,  is  thought  of  as  a  lover  of 
good  cheer  and  a  persistent  sot.  Hundreds  of  absurd  stories 
have  been  coined  concerning  the  author  of  one  of  the  finest 
books  in  French  Hterature,   "  Pantagruel." 

Aretino,  Titian's  friend,  and  the  Voltaire  of  his  day,  is  now 
credited  with  a  reputation,  in  complete  antagonism  with  his 
works  and  character,  which  he  acquired  by  his  over-free  wit, 
characteristic  of  the  writings  of  an  age  when  gross  jests  were 
held  in  honor,  and  queens  and  cardinals  indited  tales  which  are 
now  considered  licentious.  Instances  might  be  infinitely  multi- 
plied. 

In  France,  and  at  the  most  important  period  of  our  history, 
Catherine  De  Medici  has  suffered  more  from  popular  error 
than  any  other  woman,  unless  it  be  Brunehaut  or  Fredegonde ; 
while  Marie  De  Medici,  whose  every  action  was  prejudicial  to 
France,  has  escaped  the  disgrace  that  should  cover  her  name. 
Marie  dissipated  the  treasure  amassed  by  Henri  IV ;  she  never 
purged  herself  of  the  suspicion  that  she  was  cognizant  of  his 
murder ;  Epernon,  who  had  long  known  Ravaillac,  and  who  did 
not  parry  his  blow,  was  in  favor  with  the  queen  ;  she  compelled 
her  son  to  banish  her  from  France,  where  she  was  fostering  the 
rebellion  of  her  other  son,  Gaston  ;  and  Richelieu's  triumph  over 
her  on  the  Journce  des  Dupes  was  due  solely  to  the  Cardinal's 
revealing  to  Louis  XIII  certain  documents  secreted  after  the 
death  of  Henry  IV. 

Catherine  De  Medici,  on  the  contrary,  saved  the  throne  of 
France,  she  maintained  the  royal  authority  under  circumstances 
to  which  more  than  one  great  prince  w^ould  have  succumbed. 
Face  to  face  with  such  leaders  of  the  factions  and  ambitions  of 
the  Houses  of  Guise  and  of  Bourbon  as  the  two  Cardinals  de 
Lorraine  and  the  two  "  Balafres,"  the  two  Princes  de  Conde, 
Queen  Jeanne  d'Albret,  Henri  IV,  the  Connetable  de  Mont- 
morency, Calvin,  the  Colignys,  and  Theodore  de  Beze,  she  was 
forced  to  put  forth  the  rarest  fine  qualities,  the  most  essential 
gifts  of  statesmanship,  under  the  fire  of  the  Calvinist  press. 
These,  at  any  rate,  are  indisputable  facts.  And  to  the  student 
who  digs  deep  into  the  history  of  the  sixteenth  century  in 
France,  the  figure  of  Catherine  De  Medici  stands  out  as  that  of 
a  great  king. 

When  once  calumnies  are  undermined  by  facts  laboriously 


250  BALZAC 

brought  to  light  from  under  the  contradictions  of  pamphlets 
and  false  anecdotes,  everything  is  explained  to  the  glory  of  this 
wonderful  woman,  who  had  none  of  the  weakness  of  her  sex, 
who  Hved  chaste  in  the  midst  of  the  gallantries  of  the  most  li- 
centious Court  in  Europe,  and  who,  notwithstanding  her  lack 
of  money,  erected  noble  buildings,  as  if  to  make  good  the  losses 
caused  by  the  destructive  Calvinists,  who  injured  art  as  deeply 
as  they  did  the  body  politic. 

Hemmed  in  between  a  race  of  princes  who  proclaimed  them- 
selves the  heirs  of  Charlemagne,  and  a  factious  younger  branch 
that  was  eager  to  bury  the  Connetable  de  Bourbon's  treason 
under  the  throne;  obliged,  too,  to  fight  down  a  heresy  on  the 
verge  of  devouring  the  monarchy,  without  friends,  and  aware 
of  treachery  in  the  chiefs  of  the  Catholic  party  and  of  republi- 
canism in  the  Calvinists,  Catherine  used  the  most  dangerous 
but  the  surest  of  political  weapons — craft.  She  determined  to 
deceive  by  turns  the  party  that  was  anxious  to  secure  the  down- 
fall of  the  House  of  Valois,  the  Bourbons  who  aimed  at  the 
Crown,  and  the  Reformers — the  Radicals  of  that  day,  who 
dreamed  of  an  impossible  republic,  like  those  of  our  own  day, 
who,  however,  have  nothing  to  reform.  Indeed,  so  long  as  she 
lived,  the  Valois  sat  on  the  throne.  The  great  De  Thou  under- 
stood the  worth  of  this  woman  when  he  exclaimed,  on  hearing 
of  her  death : 

"  It  is  not  a  woman,  it  is  royalty  that  dies  in  her!  " 

Catherine  had,  in  fact,  the  sense  of  royalty  in  the  highest  de- 
gree, and  she  defended  it  with  admirable  courage  and  persist- 
ency. The  reproaches  flung  at  her  by  Calvinist  writers  are  in- 
deed her  glory ;  she  earned  them  solely  by  her  triumphs.  And 
how  was  she  to  triumph  but  by  cunning?  Here  lies  the  whole 
question. 

As  to  violence — that  method  bears  on  one  of  the  most  hotly 
disputed  points  of  policy,  which,  in  recent  days,  has  been  an- 
swered here,  on  the  spot  where  a  big  stone  from  Egypt  has  been 
placed  to  wipe  out  the  memory  of  regicide,  and  to  stand  as  an 
emblem  of  the  materialistic  policy  which  now  rules  us;  it  was 
answered  at  Les  Carmcs  and  at  the  Abbaye;  it  was  answered 
on  the  steps  of  Saint  Roch ;  it  was  answered  in  front  of  the 
Louvre  in  1830,  and  again  by  the  people  against  the  King,  as 
it  has  since  been  answered  once  more  by  La  Fayette's  "  best  of 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  251 

all  republics  "  against  the  republican  rebellion,  at  Saint-Merri 
and  the  Rue  Transnonnain. 

Every  power,  whether  legitimate  or  illegitimate,  must  de- 
fend itself  when  it  is  attacked ;  but,  strange  to  say,  while  the 
people  is  heroic  when  it  triumphs  over  the  nobility,  the  au- 
thorities are  murderers  when  they  oppose  the  people !  And, 
finally,  if  after  their  appeal  to  force  they  succumb,  they  are  re- 
garded as  efifete  idiots.  The  present  Government  (1840)  will 
try  to  save  itself,  by  two  laws,  from  the  same  evil  as  attacked 
Charles  X,  and  which  he  tried  to  scotch  by  two  decrees.  Is 
not  this  a  bitter  mockery  ?  May  those  in  power  meet  cunning 
with  cunning?     Ought  they  to  kill  those  who  try  to  kill  them? 

The  massacres  of  the  Revolution  are  the  reply  to  the  mas- 
sacre of  Saint-Bartholomew.  The  People,  being  King,  did 
by  the  nobility  and  the  King  as  the  King  and  the  nobility  did 
by  the  rebels  in  the  sixteenth  century.  And  popular  waiters, 
who  know  full  well  that,  under  similar  conditions,  the  people 
would  do  the  same  again,  are  inexcusable  when  they  blame 
Catherine  De  Medici  and  Charles  IX. 

"  All  power  is  a  permanent  conspiracy,"  said  Casimir  Perier, 
when  teaching  what  power  ought  to  be.  We  ddmire  the  anti- 
social maxims  published  by  audacious  writers ;  why,  then,  are 
social  truths  received  in  France  with  such  disfavor  when  they 
are  boldly  stated  ?  This  question  alone  sufficiently  accounts 
for  historical  mistakes.  Apply  the  solution  of  this  problem  to 
the  devastating  doctrines  which  flatter  popular  passion,  and  to 
the  conservative  doctrines  which  would  repress  the  ferocious 
or  foolish  attempts  of  the  populace,  and  you  will  see  the  reason 
why  certain  personages  are  popular  or  unpopular.  Laubarde- 
mont  and  LafYemas,  like  some  people  now  living,  were  devoted 
to  the  maintenance  of  the  power  they  believed  in.  Soldiers 
and  judges,  they  obeyed  a  royal  authority.  D'Orthez,  in  our 
day,  would  be  discharged  from  office  for  misinterpreting  or- 
ders from  the  ministry,  but  Charles  X  left  him  to  govern  his 
province.  The  power  of  the  masses  is  accountable  to  no  one ; 
the  power  of  one  is  obliged  to  account  to  its  subjects,  great 
and  small  alike. 

Catherine,  like  Philip  II  and  the  Duke  of  Alva,  like  the 
Guises  and  Cardinal  Granvelle,  foresaw  the  future  to  which  the 
Reformation  was  dooming  Europe.     They  saw  monarchies, 


252  BALZAC 

religion,  and  power  all  overthrown.  Catherine,  from  the  cabi- 
net of  the  French  kings,  forthwith  issued  sentence  of  death  on 
that  inquiring  spirit  which  threatened  modern  society — a  sen- 
tence which  Louis  XIV  finally  carried  out.  The  revocation 
of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  was  a  measure  that  proved  unfortunate, 
simply  in  consequence  of  the  irritation  Louis  XIV  had  aroused 
in  Europe.  At  any  other  time  England,  Holland,  and  the 
German  Empire  would  not  have  encouraged  on  their  territory 
French  exiles  and  French  rebels. 

Why,  in  these  days,  refuse  to  recognize  the  greatness  which 
the  majestic  adversary  of  that  most  barren  heresy  derived  from 
the  struggle  itself?  Calvinists  have  written  strongly  against 
Charles  IX's  stratagems;  but  travel  through  France:  as  you 
see  the  ruins  of  so  many  fine  churches  destroyed,  and  consider 
the  vast  breaches  made  by  religious  fanatics  in  the  social  body ; 
when  you  learn  the  revenges  they  took,  while  deploring  the 
mischief  of  individualism — the  plague  of  France  to-day,  of 
which  the  germ  lay  in  the  questions  of  liberty  of  conscience 
which  they  stirred  up — you  will  ask  yourself  on  which  side 
were  the  barbarians.  There  are  always,  as  Catherine  says 
"  unluckily,  in  all  ages,  hypocritical  writers  ready  to  bewail 
two  hundred  scoundrels  killed  in  due  season."  Csesar,  who 
tried  to  incite  the  senate  to  pity  for  Catiline's  party,  would  very 
likely  have  conquered  Cicero  if  he  had  had  newspapers  and  an 
Opposition  at  his  service. 

Another  consideration  accounts  for  Catherine's  historical  and 
popular  disfavor.  In  France  the  Opposition  has  always  been 
Protestant,  because  its  policy  has  never  been  anything  but  neg- 
ative ;  it  has  inherited  the  theories  of  the  Lutherans,  the  Cal- 
vinists, and  the  Protestants  on  the  terrible  texts  of  liberty,  tol- 
erance, progress,  and  philanthropy.  The  opponents  of  power 
spent  two  centuries  in  establishing  the  very  doubtful  doctrine 
of  free-will.  Two  more  were  spent  in  working  out  the  first 
corollary  of  free-will— liberty  of  conscience.  Our  age  is  striv- 
ing to  prove  the  second— political  liberty. 

Standing  between  the  fields  already  traversed  and  the  fields 
as  yet  untrodden,  Catherine  and  the  Church  proclaimed  the 
salutary  principle  of  modern  communities.  Una  /ides,  unus 
powinus,  but  asserting  their  right  of  life  and  death  over  all 
innovators.     Even  if  she  had  been  conquered,  succeeding  times 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  253 

have  shown  that  Catherine  was  right.  The  outcome  of  free- 
will, religious  Hberty,  and  political  liberty  (note,  this  does  not 
mean  civil  liberty)  is  France  as  we  now  see  it. 

And  what  is  France  in  1840?  A  country  exclusively  ab- 
sorbed in  material  interests,  devoid  of  patriotism,  devoid  of 
conscience ;  where  authority  is  powerless ;  where  electoral 
rights,  the  fruit  of  free-will  and  political  liberty,  raise  none  but 
mediocrities ;  where  brute  force  is  necessary  to  oppose  the 
violence  of  the  populace ;  where  discussion,  brought  to  bear 
on  the  smallest  matter,  checks  every  action  ot  the  body  poUtic ; 
and  where  individualism — the  odious  result  of  the  indefinite 
subdivision  of  property,  which  destroys  family  cohesion — will 
devour  everything,  even  the  nation,  which  sheer  selfishness 
will  some  day  lay  open  to  invasion.  Men  will  say,  "  Why  not 
the  Czar?  "  as  they  now  say,  "  Why  not  the  Due  d'Orleans?  " 
We  do  not  care  for  many  things  even  now ;  fifty  years  hence 
we  shall  care  for  nothing. 

Therefore,  according  to  Catherine — and  according  to  all  who 
wish  to  see  society  soundly  organized — man  as  a  social  unit, 
as  a  subject,  has  no  free-will,  has  no  right  to  accept  the  dogma 
of  liberty  of  conscience,  or  to  have  political  liberty.  Still,  as 
no  community  can  subsist  without  some  guarantee  given  to 
the  subject  against  the  sovereign,  the  subject  derives  from  that 
certain  liberties  under  restrictions.  Liberty — no,  but  liberties 
— yes ;  well  defined  and  circumscribed  liberties.  This  is  in  the 
nature  of  things.  For  instance,  it  is  beyond  human  power  to 
fetter  freedom  of  thought ;  and  no  sovereign  may  ever  tamper 
with  money. 

The  great  politicians  who  have  failed  in  this  long  contest — 
it  has  gone  on  for  five  centuries — have  allowed  their  subjects 
wide  liberties  ;  but  they  never  recognize  their  liberty  to  publish 
anti-social  opinions,  nor  the  unlimited  freedom  of  the  subject. 
To  them  the  words  subject  and  free  are,  politically  speaking,  a 
contradiction  in  terms;  and,  in  the  same  way,  the  statement 
that  all  citizens  are  equal  is  pure  nonsense,  and  contradicted 
by  Nature  every  hour.  To  acknowledge  the  need  for  religion, 
the  need  for  authority,  and  at  the  same  time  to  leave  all  men 
at  liberty  to  deny  religion,  to  attack  its  services,  to  oppose  the 
exercise  of  authority  by  the  public  and  published  expression 
of  opinion,  is  an  impossibility  such  as  the  Catholics  of  the 


254 


BALZAC 


sixteenth  century  would  have  nothing"  to  say  to.  Alas!  the 
triumph  of  Calvinism  will  cost  France  more  yet  than  it  has 
ever  done ;  for  the  sects  of  to-day — religious,  political,  humani- 
tarian, and  levelling — are  the  train  of  Calvinism ;  and  when 
we  see  the  blunders  of  those  in  power,  their  contempt  for  in- 
telligence, their  devotion  to  those  material  interests  in  which 
they  seek  support,  and  which  are  the  most  delusive  of  all  props, 
unless  by  the  special  aid  of  Providence  the  genius  of  destruc- 
tion must  certainly  win  the  day  from  the  genius  of  conservatism. 
The  attacking  forces,  who  have  nothing  to  lose,  and  every- 
thing to  win,  are  thoroughly  in  agreement;  whereas  their 
wealthy  opponents  refuse  to  make  any  sacrifice  of  money  or  of 
self-conceit  to  secure  defenders. 

Printing  came  to  the  aid  of  the  resistance  inaugurated  by 
the  Vaudois  and  the  Albigenses.  As  soon  as  human  thought 
— no  longer  condensed,  as  it  had  necessarily  been  in  order  to 
preser\'e  the  most  communicable  form — had  assumed  a  multi- 
tude of  garbs  and  become  the  very  people,  instead  of  remain- 
ing in  some  sense  divinely  axiomatic,  there  were  two  vast  armies 
to  contend  with — that  of  ideas  and  that  of  men.  Royal  power 
perished  in  the  struggle,  and  we,  in  France,  at  this  day  are 
looking  on  at  its  last  coalition  with  elements  which  make  it 
difhcult,  not  to  say  impossible. 

Power  is  action ;  the  electoral  principle  is  discussion.  No 
political  action  is  possible  when  discussion  is  permanently 
established.  So  we  ought  to  regard  the  woman  as  truly  great 
who  foresaw  that  future,  and  fought  it  so  bravely.  The  House 
of  Bourbon  was  able  to  succeed  to  the  House  of  Valois,  and 
owed  it  to  Catherine  De  Medici  that  it  found  that  crown  to 
wear.  If  the  second  Balafre  had  been  alive  it  is  very  doubtful 
that  the  Bearnais,  strong  as  he  was,  could  have  seized  the 
throne,  seeing  how  dearly  it  was  sold  by  the  Due  de  Mayenne 
and  the  remnant  of  the  Guise  faction.  The  necessary  steps 
taken  by  Catherine,  who  had  the  deaths  of  Francis  H  and 
Charles  IX  on  her  soul — both  dying  opportunely  for  her  safety 
— are  not,  it  must  be  noted,  what  the  Calvinist  and  modern 
writers  blame  her  for !  Though  there  was  no  poisoning,  as 
some  serious  authors  have  asserted,  there  were  other  not  less 
criminal  plots.  It  is  beyond  c|ucstion  that  she  hindered  Pare 
from  saving  one,  and  murdered  the  other  morally  by  inches. 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  255 

But  the  swift  death  of  Francis  11  and  the  skilfully  contrived 
end  of  Charles  IX  did  no  injury  to  Calvinist  interests.  The 
causes  of  these  two  events  concerned  only  the  uppermost 
sphere,  and  were  never  suspected  by  writers  or  by  the  lower 
orders  at  the  time ;  they  were  guessed  only  by  De  Thou,  by 
L'Hopital,  by  men  of  the  highest  talents,  or  the  chiefs  of  the 
two  parties  who  coveted  and  clung  to  the  Crown,  and  who 
thought  such  means  indispensable. 

Though  the  executions  at  Amboise  were  attributed  to  Cath- 
erine, and  the  Calvinists  made  that  able  woman  responsible 
for  all  the  inevitable  disasters  of  the  struggle,  she  must  be 
judged  by  posterity,  like  Robespierre  at  a  future  date. 

And  Catherine  was  cruelly  punished  for  her  preference  for 
the  Due  d'Anjou,  which  made  her  hold  her  two  elder  sons  so 
cheap.  Henri  III  having  ceased,  like  all  spoilt  children,  to 
care  for  his  mother,  rushed  voluntarily  into  such  debauchery 
as  made  him  what  the  mother  had  made  Charles  IX,  a  child- 
less husband,  a  king  without  an  heir.  Unhappily,  Catherine's 
youngest  son,  the  Due  d'Alengon,  died — a  natural  death.  The 
Queen-mother  made  every  effort  to  control  her  son's  pas- 
sions, but  she  did  not  cure  Henri  III  of  his  bad  habits. 

This  great  Queen's  last  words  summed  up  her  policy,  which 
was  indeed  so  governed  by  good  sense  that  we  see  the  Cabinets 
of  every  country  putting  it  into  practice  in  similar  circum- 
stances. 

"  Well  cut,  my  son,"  said  she,  when  Henri  III  came  to  her, 
on  her  death-bed,  to  announce  that  the  enemy  of  the  throne  had 
been  put  to  death.     "  Now  you  must  sew  up  again." 

She  thus  expressed  her  opinion  that  the  sovereign  must 
make  friends  with  the  House  of  Lorraine,  and  make  it  useful, 
as  the  only  way  to  hinder  the  effects  of  the  Guises'  hatred,  by 
giving  them  a  hope  of  circumventing  the  King.  But  this  in- 
defatigable cunning  of  the  Italian  and  the  woman  was  incom- 
patible with  Henri  Ill's  life  of  debauchery.  When  once  the 
great  mother  was  dead,  the  mother  of  camps  {Mater  ca>stro- 
rum),  the  policy  of  the  Valois  died  too. 

Before  attempting  to  write  this  picture  of  manners  in  action, 
the  author  patiently  and  minutely  studied  the  principal  reigns 
of  French  history,  the  quarrels  of  the  Burgundians  and  the 
Armagnacs,  and  those  of  the  Guises  and  the  \'aloi5,  each  in  the 


256  BALZAC 

forefront  of  a  century.  His  purpose  was  to  write  a  picturesque 
history  of  France.  Isabella  of  Bavaria,  Catherine  and  Marie 
De  Medici,  each  fills  a  conspicuous  place,  dominating  from  the 
fourteenth  to  the  seventeenth  centuries,  and  leading  up  to  Louis 
'XIV. 

Of  these  three  queens,  Catherine  was  the  most  interesting 
and  the  most  beautiful.  Hers  was  a  manly  rule,  while  neither 
of  the  others  had  any  political  genius. 

In  the  course  of  these  studies  and  comparisons,  the  author 
became  convinced  of  Catherine's  greatness;  by  initiating  him- 
self into  the  peculiar  difficulties  of  her  position,  he  discerned 
how  unjust  historians,  biassed  by  Protestantism,  had  been  to 
this  queen ;  and  the  outcome  was  three  sketches,  in  which  some 
erroneous  opinions  of  her,  of  those  who  were  about  her,  and  of 
the  aspect  of  the  times,  are  combated. 

The  work  is  placed  among  my  philosophical  studies,  because 
it  illustrates  the  spirit  of  a  period,  and  plainly  shows  the  in- 
fluence of  opinions. 

But  before  depicting  the  political  arena  on  which  Catherine 
comes  into  collision  with  the  two  great  obstacles  in  her  career, 
it  is  necessary  to  give  a  short  account  of  her  previous  life  from 
the  point  of  view  of  an  impartial  critic,  so  that  the  reader  may 
form  a  general  idea  of  this  large  and  royal  life  up  to  the  time 
when  the  first  part  of  this  narrative  opens. 

Never  at  any  period,  in  any  country,  or  in  any  ruling  family 
was  there  more  contempt  felt  for  legitimacy  than  by  the  famous 
race  of  the  Medici  (in  French  commonly  written  and  pro- 
nounced Medicis).  They  held  the  same  opinion  of  monarchy 
as  is  now  professed  in  Russia :  The  ruler  on  whom  the  crown 
devolves  is  the  real  and  legitimate  monarch.  Mirabeau  was 
justified  in  saying,  "  There  has  been  but  one  »icsoIlia)icc  in  my 
family — that  with  the  Medici  " ;  for,  notwithstanding  the  ex- 
ertions of  well-paid  genealogists,  it  is  certain  that  the  Medici, 
till  the  time  of  Averardo  De  Medici,  gonfaloniere  of  Florence 
in  1 3 14,  were  no  more  than  Florentine  merchants  of  great 
wealth.  The  first  personage  of  the  family  who  filled  a  con- 
spicuous place  in  the  history  of  the  great  Tuscan  Republic  was 
Salvestro  De  Medici,  gonfaloniere  in  1378.  This  Salvcstro  had 
two  sons — Cosmo  and  Lorenzo  Dc  Medici. 

From  Cosmo  descended  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  the  Due 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE   MEDICI  257 

de  Nemours,  the  Duke  of  Urbino,  Catherine's  father,  Pope 
Leo  X,  Pope  Clement  VII,  and  Alessandro,  not  indeed  Duke 
of  Florence,  as  he  is  sometimes  called,  but  Duke  delta  cittd  di 
Penna,  a  title  created  by  Pope  Clement  VII  as  a  step  towards 
that  of  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany. 

Lorenzo's  descendants  were  Lorenzino — the  Brutus  of  Flor- 
ence— who  killed  Duke  Alessandro ;  Cosmo,  the  first  Grand 
Duke,  and  all  the  rulers  of  Florence  till  1737,  when  the  family 
became  extinct. 

But  neither  of  the  two  branches — that  of  Cosmo  or  that  of 
Lorenzo — succeeded  in  a  direct  line,  till  the  time  when  Marie 
De  Medici's  father  subjugated  Tuscany,  and  the  Grand  Dukes 
inherited  in  regular  succession.  Thus  Alessandro  De  Medici, 
who  assumed  the  title  of  Duke  delta  cittd  di  Penna,  and  whom 
Lorenzino  assassinated,  was  the  son  of  the  Duke  of  Urbino, 
Catherine's  father,  by  a  Moorish  slave.  Hence  Lorenzino,  the 
legitimate  son  of  Lorenzo,  had  a  double  right  to  kill  Alessan- 
dro, both  as  a  usurper  in  the  family  and  as  an  oppressor  of  the 
city.  Some  historians  have  indeed  supposed  that  Alessandro 
was  the  son  of  Clement  VII.  The  event  that  led  to  the  recog- 
nition of  this  illegitimate  son  as  head  of  the  republic  was  his 
marriage  with  Margaret  of  Austria,  the  natural  daughter  of 
Charles  V. 

Francesco  De  Medici,  the  husband  of  Bianca  Capello,  rec- 
ognized as  his  son  a  child  of  low  birth  bought  by  that  notorious 
Venetian  lady ;  and,  strange  to  say,  Fernando,  succeeding 
Francesco,  upheld  the  hypothetical  rights  of  this  boy.  In- 
deed, this  youth,  known  as  Don  Antonio  De  Medici,  was  recog- 
nized by  the  family  during  four  ducal  reigns ;  he  won  the 
afifection  of  all,  did  them  important  serv^ice,  and  was  universally 
regretted. 

Almost  all  the  early  Medici  had  natural  children,  whose  lot 
was  in  every  case  splendid.  The  Cardinal  Giulio  De  Medici, 
Pope  Clement  VII,  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  GiuHano  I.  Car- 
dinal IppoHto  De  Medici  was  also  illegitimate,  and  he  was 
within  an  ace  of  being  pope  and  head  of  the  family.  Lorenzo 
De  Medici,  Catherine's  father,  had  married,  for  the  second  time, 
in  1518,  Madeleine  de  la  Tour  d'Auvergne,  and  died  in  1519,  a 
few  days  after  his  wife,  who  died  in  giving  birth  to  Catherine. 

Catherine  was  thus  fatherless  and  motherless  as  soon  as  she 

L— Vol.  GO 


258  BALZAC 

saw  the  light.  Hence  the  strange  events  of  her  childhood, 
checkered  by  the  violent  struggles  of  the  Florentines,  in  the 
attempt  to  recover  their  liberty,  against  the  Medici  who  were 
determined  to  govern  Florence,  but  who  were  so  circumspect 
in  their  policy  that  Catherine's  father  took  the  title  of  Duke 
of  Urbino. 

At  his  death  the  legitimate  head  of  the  House  of  the  Medici 
was  Pope  Leo  X,  who  appointed  Giuliano's  illegitimate  son, 
Giulio  De  Medici,  then  Cardinal,  Governor  of  Florence.  Leo 
X  was  Catherine's  grand-uncle,  and  this  Cardinal  Giulio, 
afterwards  Clement  VH,  was  her  left-handed  uncle  only. 

During  the  siege  by  the  Medici  to  regain  possession  of 
Florence,  the  Repubhcan  party,  not  satisfied  with  having  shut 
up  Catherine,  then  nine  years  old,  in  a  convent,  after  stripping 
her  of  all  her  possessions,  proposed  to  expose  her  to  the  fire  of 
the  artillery,  between  two  battlements — the  suggestion  of  a 
certain  Battista  Cei.  Bernardo  Castiglione  went  even  further 
in  a  council  held  to  determine  on  some  conclusion  to  the  busi- 
ness ;  he  advised  that,  rather  than  surrender  Catherine  to  the 
Pope  who  demanded  it,  she  should  be  handed  over  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  soldiers.  All  revolutions  of  the  popu- 
lace are  alike.  Catherine's  policy,  always  in  favor  of  royal 
authority,  may  have  been  fostered  by  such  scenes,  which  an 
Italian  girl  of  nine  could  not  fail  to  understand. 

Alessandro's  promotion,  to  which  Clement  VH  (himself  il- 
legitimate), largely  contributed,  was  no  doubt  owing  partly  to 
the  fact  of  Alessandro's  illegitimacy,  and  to  Charles  V's  affection 
for  his  famous  natural  daughter  Margaret.  Thus  the  Pope 
and  the  Emperor  were  moved  by  similar  feelings.  At  this 
period  Venice  was  mistress  of  the  commerce  of  the  world ; 
Rome  governed  its  morals ;  Italy  was  still  supreme,  by  the 
poets,  the  generals,  and  the  statesmen  who  were  her  sons.  At 
no  other  time  has  any  one  country  had  so  curious  or  so  various 
a  multitude  of  men  of  genius.  There  were  so  many  that  the 
smallest  princelings  were  superior  men.  Italy  was  overflow- 
ing with  talent,  daring,  science,  poetry,  wealth,  and  gallantry, 
though  rent  by  constant  internal  wars,  and  at  all  times  the 
arena  on  which  conquerors  met  to  fight  for  her  fairest  prov- 
inces. 

When  men  are  so  great  they  arc  not  afraid  to  confess  their 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  259 

weakness ;  hence,  no  doubt,  this  golden  age  for  illegitimate  sons. 
And  it  is  but  justice  to  declare  that  these  illegitimate  sons  of  the 
Medici  were  ardent  for  the  glory  and  the  advancement  of  the 
family,  alike  in  possessions  and  in  power.  And  as  soon  as  the 
Duke  della  citta  di  Pciina,  the  Moorish  slave's  son,  was  estab- 
lished as  Tyrant  of  Florence,  he  took  up  the  interest  shown  by 
Pope  Clement  VII  for  Lorenzo  II's  daughter,  now  eleven 
years  of  age. 

As  we  study  the  march  of  events  and  of  men  in  that 
strange  sixteenth  century,  we  must  never  forget  that  the  chief 
element  of  political  conduct  was  unremitting  craft,  destroying 
in  every  nature  the  upright  conduct,  the  squareness  which 
imagination  looks  for  in  eminent  men.  In  this,  especially,  lies 
Catherine's  absolution.  This  observation,  in  fact,  disposes  of 
all  the  mean  and  foolish  accusations  brought  against  her  by 
the  writers  of  the  reformed  faith.  It  was  indeed  the  golden 
age  of  this  type  of  policy,  of  which  Machiavelli  and  Spinoza 
formulated  the  code,  and  Hobbes  and  Montesquieu ;  for  the 
dialogue  of  "  Sylla  and  Eucrates  "  expresses  Montesquieu's 
real  mind,  which  he  could  not  set  forth  in  any  other  form,  in 
consequence  of  his  connection  with  the  Encyclopaedists.  These 
principles  are  to  this  day  the  unconfessed  morality  of  every 
Cabinet  where  schemes  of  vast  dominion  are  worked  out.  In 
France  we  were  severe  on  Napoleon  when  he  exerted  this 
Italian  genius  which  was  in  his  blood,  and  its  plots  did  not 
always  succeed ;  but  Charles  V,  Catherine,  Philip  II,  Giulio 
II,  would  have  done  just  as  he  did  in  the  affairs  of  Spain. 

At  the  time  when  Catherine  was  bom,  history,  if  related 
from  the  point  of  view  of  honesty,  would  seem  an  impossible 
romance.  Charles  V,  while  forced  to  uphold  the  Catholic 
Church  against  the  attacks  of  Luther,  who  by  threatening  the 
tiara  threatened  his  throne,  allowed  Rome  to  be  besieged,  and 
kept  Pope  Clement  VII  in  prison.  This  same  Pope,  who  had 
no  more  bitter  foe  than  Charles  V,  cringed  to  him  that  he  might 
place  Alessandro  De  Medici  at  Florence,  and  the  Emperor 
gave  his  daughter  in  marriage  to  the  bastard  duke.  No  sooner 
was  he  firmly  settled  than  Alessandro,  in  concert  with  the 
Pope,  attempted  to  injure  Charles  V  by  an  alliance,  through 
Catherine  De  Medici,  with  Francis  I,  and  both  promised  to 
assist  the  French  king  to  conquer  Italy. 


26o  BALZAC 

Lorenzino  De  Medici  became  Alessandro's  boon  compan- 
ion, and  pandered  to  him  to  get  an  opportunity  of  killing 
him;  and  Filippo  Strozzi,  one  of  the  loftiest  spirits  of  that 
age,  regarded  this  murder  with  such  high  esteem  that  he  vowed 
that  each  of  his  sons  should  marry  one  of  the  assassin's  daugh- 
ters. The  sons  religiously  fulfilled  the  father's  pledge  at  a 
time  when  each  of  them,  under  Catherine's  protection,  could 
have  made  a  splendid  alliance ;  for  one  was  Doria's  rival,  and 
the  other  Marshal  of  France. 

Cosmo  De  Medici,  Alessandro's  successor,  avenged  the 
death  of  the  Tyrant  with  great  cruelty,  and  persistently  for 
twelve  years,  during  which  his  hatred  never  flagged  against 
the  people  who  had,  after  all,  placed  him  in  power.  He  was 
eighteen  years  of  age  when  he  succeeded  to  the  government; 
his  first  act  was  to  annul  the  rights  of  Alessandro's  legitimate 
sons,  at  the  time  when  he  was  avenging  Alessandro  1  Charles 
V  confirmed  the  dispossession  of  his  grandson,  and  recognized 
Cosmo  instead  of  Alessandro's  son. 

Cosmo,  raised  to  the  throne  by  Cardinal  Cibo,  at  once  sent 
the  prelate  into  exile.  Then  Cardinal  Cibo  accused  his 
creature,  Cosmo,  the  first  Grand  Duke,  of  having  tried  to 
poison  Alessandro's  son.  The  Grand  Duke,  as  jealous  of  his 
authority  as  Charles  V  was  of  his,  abdicated,  like  the  Emperor, 
in  favor  of  his  son  Francesco,  after  ordering  the  death  of  Don 
Garcias,  his  other  son,  in  revenge  for  that  of  Cardinal  Giovanni 
De  Medici,  whom  Garcias  had  assassinated. 

Cosmo  I  and  his  son  Francesco,  who  ought  to  have  been 
devoted,  soul  and  body,  to  the  royal  house  of  France,  the  only 
power  able  to  lend  them  support,  were  the  humble  servants  of 
Charles  V  and  Philip  II,  and  consequently  the  secret,  per- 
fidious, and  cowardly  foes  of  Catherine  De  Medici,  one  of  the 
glories  of  their  race. 

Such  are  the  more  important  features — contradictory  and 
illogical  indeed — the  dishonest  acts,  the  dark  intrigues  of  the 
House  of  the  Medici  alone.  From  this  sketch  some  idea  may 
be  formed  of  the  other  princes  of  Italy  and  Europe.  Every 
envoy  from  Cosmo  T  to  the  Court  of  France  had  secret  instruc- 
tions to  poison  Strozzi,  Queen  Cntlicrinc's  relation,  when  he 
should  find  him  there.  Charles  V  had  three  ambassadors  from 
Francis  I  murdered. 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  261 

It  was  early  in  October  1533  that  the  Duke  della  citta  de 
Penna  left  Florence  for  Leghorn,  accompanied  by  Catherine 
De  Medici,  sole  heiress  of  Lorenzo  IL  The  Duke  and  the 
Princess  oi  Florence,  for  this  was  the  title  borne  by  the  girl, 
now  fourteen  years  of  age,  left  the  city  with  a  large  following 
of  servants,  officials,  and  secretaries,  preceded  by  men-at-arms, 
and  escorted  by  a  mounted  guard.  The  young  Princess  as  yet 
knew  nothing  of  her  fate,  excepting  that  the  Pope  and  Duke 
Alessandro  were  to  have  an  interview  at  Leghorn ;  but  her 
uncles,  Filippo  Strozzi,  soon  told  her  of  the  future  that  lay 
before  her. 

Flippo  Strozzi  had  married  Clarissa  De  Medici,  whole  sister 
to  Lorenzo  De  Medici,  Duke  of  Urbino,  Catherine's  father; 
but  this  union,  arranged  quite  as  much  with  a  view  to  convert- 
ing one  of  the  stoutest  champions  of  the  popular  cause  to  the 
support  of  Medici  as  to  secure  the  recall  of  that  then  exiled 
family,  never  shook  the  tenets  of  the  rough  soldier  who  was 
persecuted  by  his  party  for  having  consented  to  it.  In  spite 
of  some  superficial  change  of  conduct,  somewhat  overruled  by 
this  alliance,  he  remained  faithful  to  the  popular  side,  and  de- 
clared against  the  Medici  as  soon  as  he  perceived  their  scheme 
of  subjugating  Florence.  This  great  man  even  refused  the 
offer  of  a  principality  from  Leo  X.  At  that  time  Filippo 
Strozzi  was  a  victim  to  the  policy  of  the  Medici,  so  shifty  in 
its  means,  so  unvarying  in  its  aim. 

After  sharing  the  Pope's  misfortunes  and  captivity,  when, 
surprised  by  Colonna,  he  took  refuge  in  the  castle  of  Saint- 
Angelo,  he  was  given  up  by  Clement  VII  as  a  hostage  and 
carried  to  Naples.  As  soon  as  the  Pope  was  free  he  fell  upon 
his  foes,  and  Strozzi  was  then  near  being  killed ;  he  was  forced 
to  pay  an  enormous  bribe  to  get  out  of  the  prison,  where  he 
was  closely  guarded.  As  soon  as  he  was  at  liberty,  with  the 
natural  trustfulness  of  an  honest  man,  he  was  simple  enough 
to  appear  before  Clement  VII,  who  perhaps  had  flattered  him- 
self that  he  was  rid  of  him.  The  Pope  had  so  much  to  be 
ashamed  of  that  he  received  Strozzi  very  ungraciously.  Thus 
Strozzi  had  very  early  begun  his  apprenticeship  to  the  life  of 
disaster,  which  is  that  of  a  man  who  is  honest  in  politics,  and 
whose  conscience  will  not  lend  itself  to  the  caprices  of  op- 
portunity, whose  actions  are  pleasing  only  to  virtue,  which 


a62  BALZAC 

is  persecuted  by  all — by  the  populace,  because  it  withstands 
their  blind  passions;  by  authority,  because  it  resists  its  usur- 
pations. 

The  life  of  these  great  citizens  is  a  martyrdom,  through  which 
they  have  nothing  to  support  them  but  the  strong  voice  of  con- 
science, and  the  sense  of  social  duty,  which  in  all  cases  dictate 
their  conduct. 

There  were  many  such  men  in  the  republic  of  Florence,  all 
as  great  as  Strozzi  and  as  masterly  as  their  adversaries  on  the 
Medici  side,  though  beaten  by  Florentine  cunning.  In  the  con- 
spiracy of  the  Pazzi,  what  can  be  finer  than  the  attitude  of  the 
head  of  that  house  ?  His  trade  was  immense,  and  he  settled  all 
his  accounts  with  Asia,  the  Levant,  and  Europe  before  carrying 
out  that  great  plot,  to  the  end  that  his  correspondents  should 
not  be  the  losers  if  he  should  fail. 

And  the  history  of  the  rise  of  the  Medici  family  in  the  four- 
teenth and  fifteenth  centuries  is  one  of  the  finest  that  remains 
unwritten,  though  men  of  great  genius  have  attempted  it.  It 
is  not  the  history  of  a  republic,  or  of  any  particular  community 
or  phase  of  civilization ;  it  is  the  history  of  political  man,  and 
the  eternal  history  of  political  developments,  that  of  usurpers 
and  conquerors. 

On  his  return  to  Florence,  Filippo  Strozzi  restored  the  an- 
cient form  of  government,  and  banished  Ippolito  De  Medici, 
another  bastard,  as  well  as  Alessandro,  with  whom  he  was 
now  acting.  But  he  then  was  afraid  of  the  inconstancy  of  the 
populace ;  and  as  he  dreaded  Pope  Clement's  vengeance,  he 
went  to  take  charge  of  a  large  commercial  house  he  had  at 
Lyons  in  correspondence  with  his  bankers  at  Venice  and  Rome, 
in  France,  and  in  Spain.  A  strange  fact!  These  men,  who 
bore  the  burden  of  public  affairs  as  well  as  that  of  a  perennial 
struggle  with  the  Medici,  to  say  nothing  of  their  squabbles 
with  their  own  party,  could  also  endure  the  cares  of  com- 
merce and  speculation,  of  banking  with  all  its  complications, 
which  the  vast  multiplicity  of  coinages  and  frequent  forgeries 
made  far  more  difficult  then  than  now.  The  word  banker  is 
derived  from  the  bench  on  which  they  sat,  and  which  served 
also  to  ring  the  gold  and  silver  pieces  on.  Strozzi  found  in  his 
adored  wife's  death  a  pretext  to  offer  to  the  Republican  party, 
whose  police  is  always  all  the  more  terrible  because  everybody 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  263 

is  a  voluntary  spy  in  tiie  name  of  liberty,  which  justifies  all 
things. 

Filippo's  return  to  Florence  happened  just  at  the  time  when 
the  city  was  compelled  to  bow  to  Alessandro's  yoke ;  but  he 
had  previously  been  to  see  Pope  Clement,  with  whom  matters 
were  so  promising  that  his  feelings  towards  Strozzi  had 
changed.  In  the  moment  of  triumph  the  Medici  so  badly 
needed  such  a  man  as  Strozzi,  were  it  only  to  lend  a  grace  to 
Alessandro's  assumption  of  dignity,  that  Clement  persuaded 
him  to  sit  on  Alessandro's  council,  which  was  about  to  take 
oppressive  measures,  and  Filippo  had  accepted  a  diploma  as 
senator.  But  for  the  last  two  years  and  a  half — like  Seneca 
and  Burrhus  with  Nero — he  had  noted  the  beginnings  of 
tyranny.  He  found  himself  the  object  of  distrust  to  the  pop- 
ulace, and  so  little  in  favor  with  the  Medici,  whom  he  opposed, 
that  he  foresaw  a  catastrophe.  And  as  soon  as  he  heard  from 
Alessandro  of  the  negotiations  for  the  marriage  of  Catherine 
with  a  French  prince,  which  were  perhaps  to  be  concluded  at 
Leghorn,  where  the  contracting  powers  had  agreed  to  meet, 
he  resolved  to  go  to  France  and  follow  the  fortunes  of  his  niece, 
who  would  need  a  guardian.  Alessandro,  delighted  to  be  quit 
of  a  man  so  difficult  to  manage  in  what  concerned  Florence, 
applauded  this  decision,  which  spared  him  a  murder,  and  ad- 
vised Strozzi  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  Catherine's  house- 
hold. 

In  point  of  fact,  to  dazzle  the  French  Court,  the  Medici  had 
constituted  a  brilliant  suite  for  the  young  girl  whom  they  quite 
incorrectly  styled  the  Princess  of  Florence,  and  who  was  also 
called  the  Duchess  of  Urbino.  The  procession,  at  the  head 
of  it  Duke  Alessandro,  Catherine,  and  Strozzi,  consisted  of 
more  than  a  thousand  persons,  exclusive  of  the  escort  and 
serving-men ;  and  when  the  last  of  them  were  still  at  the  gate 
of  Florence,  the  foremost  had  already  got  beyond  the  first  vil- 
lage outside  the  town — where  straw  plait  for  hats  is  now  made. 

It  was  beginning  to  be  generally  known  that  Catherine  was 
to  marry  a  son  of  Francis  I,  but  as  yet  it  was  no  more  than  a 
rumor  which  found  confirmation  in  the  country  from  this  tri- 
umphant progress  from  Florence  to  Leghorn.  From  the  prep- 
arations required,  Catherine  suspected  that  her  marriage  was 
in  question,  and  her  uncle  revealed  to  her  the  abortive  scheme 


204  BALZAC 

of  her  ambitious  family,  who  had  aspired  to  the  hand  of  the 
Dauphin.  Duke  Alessandro  still  hoped  that  the  Duke  of  Al- 
bany might  succeed  in  changing  the  determination  of  the 
French  king,  who,  though  anxious  to  secure  the  aid  of  the 
Medici  in  Italy,  would  only  give  them  the  Due  d'Orleans. 
This  narrowness  lost  Italy  to  France,  and  did  not  hinder  Cath- 
erine from  being  Queen. 

This  Duke  of  Albany,  the  son  of  Alexander  Stuart,  brother 
of  James  III  of  Scotland,  had  married  Anne  de  la  Tour  de 
Boulogne,  sister  to  Madeleine,  Catherine's  mother;  he  was 
thus  her  maternal  uncle.  It  was  through  her  mother  that 
Catherine  was  so  rich  and  connected  with  so  many  families; 
for,  strangely  enough,  Diane  de  Poitiers,  her  rival,  was  also 
her  cousin.  Jean  de  Poitiers,  Diane's  father,  was  son  of  Jeanne 
de  la  Tour  de  Boulogne,  the  Duchess  of  Urbino's  aunt.  Cath- 
erine was  also  related  to  Mary  Stuart,  her  daughter-in-law. 

Catherine  was  now  informed  that  her  dower  in  money  would 
amount  to  a  hundred  thousand  ducats.  The  ducat  was  a  gold 
piece  as  large  as  one  of  our  old  louis  d'or,  but  only  half  as  thick. 
Thus  a  hundred  thousand  ducats  in  those  days  represented,  in 
consequence  of  the  high  value  of  gold,  six  millions  of  francs 
at  the  present  time,  the  ducat  being  worth  about  twelve  francs. 
The  importance  of  the  banking-house  of  Strozzi,  at  Lyons,  may 
be  imagined  from  this,  as  it  was  his  factor  there  who  paid  over 
the  twelve  hundred  thousand  livres  in  gold.  The  counties  of 
Auvergne  and  Lauraguais  also  formed  part  of  Catherine's  por- 
tion, and  the  Pope  Clement  VII  made  her  a  gift  of  a  hundred 
thousand  ducats  more  in  jewels,  precious  stones,  and  other 
wedding  gifts,  to  which  Duke  Alessandro  contributed. 

On  reaching  Leghorn,  Catherine,  still  so  young,  must  have 
been  flattered  by  the  extraordinary  magnificence  displayed  by 
Pope  Clement  VIT,  her  "  left-handed  uncle,"  then  the  head 
of  the  House  of  Medici,  to  crush  the  Court  of  France.  He 
had  arrived  at  the  port  in  one  of  his  galleys  hung  with  crimson 
satin  trimmed  with  gold  fringe,  and  covered  with  an  awning 
of  cloth  of  gold.  This  barge,  of  which  the  decorations  had 
cost  nearly  twenty  thousand  ducats,  contained  several  rooms 
for  the  use  of  Henri  de  France's  future  bride,  furnished  with 
the  choicest  curiosities  the  Medici  had  been  able  to  collect. 
The  oarsmen,  magnificently  dressed,  and  the  seamen  were  ui>- 


ABOUT    CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  265 

der  the  captaincy  of  a  prior  of  the  Order  of  the  Knights  of 
Rhodes.     The  Pope's  household  hlled  three  more  barges. 

The  Duke  of  Albany's  galleys,  moored  by  the  side  of  the 
Pope's,  formed,  with  these,  a  considerable  flotilla. 

Duke  Alessandro  presented  the  officers  of  Catherine's  house- 
hold to  the  Pope,  with  whom  he  held  a  secret  conference, 
introducing  to  him,  as  seems  probable,  Count  Sebastian  Mon- 
tecuculi,  who  had  just  left  the  Emperor's  service — rather  sud- 
denly, it  was  said — and  the  two  generals,  Antonio  de  Leyva 
and  Fernando  Gonzaga.  Was  there  a  premeditated  plan  be- 
tween these  two  bastards  to  make  the  Due  d'Orleans  the  Dau- 
phin? What  was  the  reward  promised  to  Count  Sebastian 
Montecuculi,  who,  before  entering  the  service  of  Charles  V, 
had  studied  medicine  ?  History  is  silent  on  these  points.  We 
shall  see  indeed  in  what  obscurity  the  subject  is  wrapped.  It 
is  so  great  that  some  serious  and  conscientious  historians  have 
recently  recognized  Montecuculi's  innocence. 

Catherine  was  now  officially  informed  by  the  Pope  himself 
of  the  alliance  proposed  for  her.  The  Duke  of  Albany  had  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  the  King  of  France  to  his  promise 
of  giving  even  his  second  son  to  Catherine  De  Medici ;  and 
Clement's  impatience  was  so  great,  he  was  so  much  afraid 
of  seeing  his  schemes  upset  either  by  some  intrigue  on  the  part 
of  the  Emperor,  or  by  the  haughtiness  of  France,  where  the 
great  nobles  cast  an  evil  eye  on  this  union,  that  he  embarked 
forthwith  and  made  for  Marseilles.  He  arrived  there  at  the 
end  of  October,  1533. 

In  spite  of  his  splendor,  the  House  of  the  Medici  was  eclipsed 
by  the  sovereign  of  France.  To  show  to  what  a  pitch  these 
great  bankers  carried  their  magnificence,  the  dozen  pieces 
given  by  the  Pope  in  the  bride's  wedding  purse  consisted  of 
gold  medals  of  inestimable  historical  interest,  for  they  were  at 
that  time  unique.  But  Francis  I,  who  loved  festivity  and  dis- 
play, distinguished  himself  on  this  occasion.  The  wedding 
feasts  for  Henri  de  Valois  and  Catherine  went  on  for  thirty-four 
days.  It  is  useless  to  repeat  here  details  which  may  be  read 
in  every  history  of  Provence  and  Marseilles  as  to  this  famous 
meeting  between  the  Pope  and  the  King  of  France,  which 
was  the  occasion  of  a  jest  of  the  Duke  of  Albany's  as  to  the 
duty  of  fasting;   a  retort  recorded  by  Brantome  which  vastly 


266  BALZAC 

amused  the  Court,  and  shows  the  tone  of  manners  at  that 
time. 

Though  Henri  de  Valois  was  but  three  weeks  older  than 
Catherine,  the  Pope  insisted  on  the  immediate  consummation 
of  the  marriage  between  these  two  children,  so  greatly  did  he 
dread  the  subterfuges  of  diplomacy  and  the  trickery  commonly 
practised  at  that  period.  Many  facts  show  that  the  history  of 
Catherine  De  Medici  remains  to  be  entirely  rewritten;  and 
that,  as  Napoleon  very  shrewdly  remarked,  the  history  of 
France  should  be  in  one  volume  only,  or  in  a  thousand. 

When  we  compare  the  conduct  of  Charles  V  with  that  of  the 
King  of  France  during  the  Pope's  stay  at  Marseilles,  it  is  greatly 
to  the  advantage  of  Francis — as  indeed  in  every  instance.  Here 
is  a  brief  report  of  this  meeting  as  given  by  a  contemporary : 

"  His  Holiness  the  Pope,  having  been  conducted  to  the  palace 
prepared  for  him,  as  I  have  said,  outside  the  port,  each  one 
withdrew  to  his  chamber  until  the  morrow,  when  his  said  Holi- 
ness prepared  to  make  his  entry.  Which  was  done  with  great 
sumptuousness  and  magnificence,  he  being  set  on  a  throne  borne 
on  the  shoulders  of  two  men  in  his  pontifical  habit,  saving  only 
the  tiara,  while  before  him  went  a  white  palfrey  bearing  the 
Holy  Sacrament,  the  said  palfrey  being  led  by  two  men  on  foot 
in  very  fine  raiment  holding  a  bridle  of  white  silk.  After  him 
came  all  the  cardinals  in  their  habit,  riding  their  pontifical  mules, 
and  Madame  the  Duchess  of  Urbino  in  great  magnificence,  with 
a  goodly  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  alike  of  France  and 
of  Italy.  And  the  Pope,  with  all  this  company,  being  come  to 
the  place  prepared  where  they  should  lodge,  each  one  with- 
drew ;  and  all  this  was  ordered  and  done  without  any  disorder 
or  tumult.  Now,  while  as  the  Pope  was  making  his  entry,  the 
King  crossed  the  water  in  his  frigate  and  went  to  lodge  there 
whence  the  Pope  had  come,  to  the  end  that  on  the  morrow  he 
might  come  from  thence  to  pay  homage  to  the  Holy  Father,  as 
beseemed  a  most  Christian  King. 

."The  King  being  then  ready,  set  forth  to  go  to  the  palace 
where  the  Pope  was,  accompanied  by  the  princes  of  his  blood, 
Monscigneur  the  Due  de  Vcndosmois  (father  of  the  Vidamc  de 
Chartrcs),  the  Comtc  dc  Saint-Pol,  Monsieur  de  Montmorency, 
and  Monsieur  dc  la  Roche-sur-Yon,  the  Due  de  Nemours 
[(brother  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  who  died  at  that  place),  the 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  267 

Duke  of  Albany,  and  many  others,  counts,  barons,  and  nobles, 
the  Due  de  Montmorency  being  at  all  times  about  the  King's 
person.  The  King,  being  come  to  the  palace,  was  received  by 
the  Pope  and  all  the  College  of  Cardinals  assembled  in  con- 
sistory, with  much  civility  (fort  humainement).  This  done, 
each  one  went  to  the  place  appointed  to  him,  and  the  King  took 
with  him  many  cardinals  to  feast  them,  and  among  them  Car- 
dinal De  Medici,  the  Pope's  nephew,  a  very  magnificent  lord 
with  a  fine  escort.  On  the  morrow  those  deputed  by  his  Holi- 
ness and  by  the  King  began  to  treat  of  those  matters  whereon 
they  had  met  to  agree.  First  of  all,  they  treated  of  the  ques- 
tion of  faith,  and  a  bull  was  read  for  the  repression  of  heresy, 
and  to  hinder  things  from  coming  to  a  greater  combustion  (une 
plus  grande  combustion)  than  they  are  in  already.  Then  was 
performed  the  marriage  ceremony  between  the  Due  d'Orleans, 
the  King's  second  son,  and  Catherine  De  Medici,  Duchess  of 
Urbino,  his  Holiness's  niece,  under  conditions  the  same,  or  near- 
ly the  same,  as  had  been  formerly  proposed  to  the  Duke  of 
Albany.  The  said  marriage  was  concluded  with  great  mag- 
nificence, and  our  Holy  Father  married  them.^  This  marriage 
being  thus  concluded,  the  Holy  Father  held  a  consistory,  where- 
in he  created  four  cardinals  to  wait  on  the  King,  to  wit :  Cardinal 
le  Veneur,  heretofore  Bishop  of  Lisieux  and  High  Almoner ; 
Cardinal  de  Boulogne,  of  the  family  of  La  Chambre,  half- 
brother  on  his  mother's  side  to  the  Duke  of  Albany ;  Cardinal 
de  Chatillon,  of  the  family  of  Coligny,  nephew  to  the  Sire  de 
Montmorency ;  and  Cardinal  de  Givry." 

When  Strozzi  paid  down  the  marriage  portion  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Court  he  observed  some  surprise  on  the  part  of  the 
French  nobles ;  they  said  pretty  loudly  that  it  was  a  small  price 
for  such  a  mesalliance — what  would  they  say  to-day  ?  Cardinal 
Ippolito  replied : 

"  Then  you  are  not  informed  as  to  your  King's  secrets.  His 
Holiness  consents  to  bestow  on  France  three  pearls  of  inestima- 
ble price — Genoa,  Milan,  and  Naples." 

The  Pope  left  Count  Sebastian  Montecuculi  to  present  him- 
self at  the  French  Court,  where  he  made  an  oflFer  of  his  services, 
complaining  of  Antonio  de  Leyva  and  Fernando  Gonzaga,  for 

'At  that  time  in  French,  as  in  Italian,  the  ing.  "  Marier  "  was  the  fact  of  being  mar- 
words  "  marry  "  and  "  espouse  "  were  used  ried,  "  fepo;;ser ''  was  the  priestly  function, 
in  a  contrary  sense  to  their  present  mean- 


268  BALZAC 

which  reason  he  was  accepted.  MontecucuH  was  not  one  of 
Catherine's  household,  which  was  composed  entirely  of  French 
ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  for,  by  a  law  of  the  realm  which  the  Pope 
was  rejoiced  to  see  carried  out,  Catherine  was  naturalized  by 
letters  patent  before  her  marriage.  Montecuculi  was  at  first 
attached  to  the  household  of  the  Queen,  Charles  V's  sister. 
Then,  not  long  after,  he  entered  the  Dauphin's  service  in  the 
capacity  of  cup-bearer. 

The  Duchesse  d'Orleans  found  herself  entirely  swamped  at 
the  Court  of  Francis  I.  Her  young  husband  was  in  love  with 
Diane  de  Poitiers,  who  was  certainly  her  equal  in  point  of  birth, 
and  a  far  greater  lady.  The  daughter  of  the  Medici  took  rank 
below  Queen  Eleanor,  Charles  V's  sister,  and  the  Duchesse 
d'Etampes,  whose  marriage  to  the  head  of  the  family  of  De 
Brosse  had  given  her  one  of  the  most  powerful  positions  and 
highest  titles  in  France.  Her  aunt,  the  Duchess  of  Albany,  the 
Queen  of  Navarre,  the  Duchesse  de  Guise,  the  Duchesse  de  Ven- 
dome,  the  wife  of  the  Connetable,  and  many  other  women,  by 
their  birth  and  privileges  as  well  as  by  their  influence  in  the 
most  sumptuous  Court  ever  held  by  a  French  king — not  except- 
ing Louis  XIV — wholly  eclipsed  the  daughter  of  the  Florentine 
merchants,  who  was  indeed  more  illustrious  and  richer  through 
the  Tour  de  Boulogne  family  than  through  her  descent  from 
the  Medici. 

Filippo  Strozzi,  a  republican  at  heart,  regarded  his  niece's 
position  as  so  critical  and  difficult  that  he  felt  himself  incapable 
of  directing  her  in  the  midst  of  conflicting  interests,  and  de- 
serted her  at  the  end  of  a  year,  being  indeed  recalled  to  Italy  by 
the  death  of  Clement  VII.  Catherine's  conduct,  when  we  re- 
member that  she  was  but  just  fifteen,  was  a  marvel  of  prudence. 
She  very  adroitly  attached  herself  to  the  King,  her  father-in- 
law,  leaving  him  as  rarely  as  possible ;  she  was  with  him  on 
horseback,  in  hunting,  and  in  war. 

Her  adoration  of  Francis  I  saved  the  House  of  Medici  from 
all  suspicion  when  the  Dauphin  died  poisoned.  At  that  time 
Catherine  and  the  Due  d'Orleans  were  at  the  King's  head-quar- 
ters in  ProvenQc,  for  France  had  already  been  invaded  by 
Charles  V,  the  King's  brother-in-law.  The  whole  Court  had 
remained  on  the  scene  of  the  wedding  festivities,  now  the  the- 
atre of  the  most  barbarous  war.     Just  as  Charles  V,  compelled 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE    MEDICI  269 

to  retreat,  had  fled,  leaving  the  bones  of  his  army  in  Provence, 
the  Dauphin  was  returning  to  Lyons  by  the  Rhone.  Stopping 
at  Tournon  for  the  night,  to  amuse  himself,  he  went  through 
some  athletic  exercises,  such  as  formed  almost  the  sole  educa- 
tion he  or  his  brother  received,  in  consequence  of  their  long 
detention  as  hostages.  The  Prince  being  very  hot — it  was  in 
the  month  of  August — was  so  rash  as  to  ask  for  a  glass  of 
water,  which  was  given  to  him,  iced,  by  Montecuculi.  The 
Dauphin  died  almost  instantaneously. 

The  King  idolized  his  son.  The  Dauphin  was  indeed,  as  his- 
torians are  agreed,  a  very  accomplished  prince.  His  father,  in 
despair,  gave  the  utmost  publicity  to  the  proceedings  against 
Montecuculi,  and  placed  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  the  most 
learned  judges  of  the  day. 

After  heroically  enduring  the  first  tests  of  torture  without 
confessing  anything,  the  Count  made  an  avowal  by  which  he 
fully  implicated  the  Emperor  and  his  two  generals,  Antonio  de 
Leyva  and  Fernando  Gonzaga.  This,  however,  did  not  satisfy 
Francis  I.  Never  was  a  case  more  solemnly  thrashed  out  than 
this.  An  eye-witness  gives  the  following  account  of  what  the 
King  did : 

"  The  King  called  all  the  princes  of  the  blood,  and  all  the 
knights  of  his  order,  and  many  other  high  personages  of  the 
realm,  to  meet  at  Lyons ;  the  Pope's  legate  and  nuncio,  the  car- 
dinals who  were  of  his  Court,  and  the  ambassadors  of  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  Portugal,  Venice,  Ferrara,  and  others ;  together 
with  all  the  princes  and  great  nobles  of  foreign  countries,  both 
of  Italy  and  of  Germany,  who  were  at  that  time  residing  at  hia 
Court,  to  wit :  The  Duke  of  Wittemberg,  in  Allemaigne ;  the 
Dukes  of  Somma,  of  Arianna,  and  of  Atria;  the  Princes  of 
Melphe  [Malfi?]  (who  had  desired  to  marry  Catherine),  and 
of  Stilliano,  Neapolitan ;  the  Marquis  di  Vigevo,  of  the  House 
of  Trivulzio,  Milanese ;  the  Signor  Giovanni  Paolo  di  Ceri,  Ro- 
man ;  the  Signor  Cesare  Fregose,  Genoese ;  the  Signor  Anni- 
bale  Gonzaga,  Mantuan,  and  many  more.  Who  being  assem- 
bled, he  caused  to  be  read  in  their  presence,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end,  the  trial  of  that  wretched  man  who  had  poisoned 
his  late  Highness  the  Dauphin,  with  all  the  interrogations,  con- 
fessions, confrontings,  and  other  proceedings  usual  in  criminal 
trials,  not  choosing  that  the  sentence  should  be  carried  out  un- 


270 


BALZAC 


til  all  those  present  had  given  their  opinion  on  this  monstrous 
and  miserable  matter." 

Count  Montecuculi's  fidelity  and  devotion  may  seem  extra- 
ordinary in  our  day  of  universal  indiscretion,  when  everybody, 
and  even  ministers,  talk  over  the  most  trivial  incidents  in  which 
they  have  put  a  finger;  but  in  those  times  princes  could  com- 
mand devoted  servants,  or  knew  how  to  choose  them.  There 
were  monarchical  Moreys  then,  because  there  was  faith.  Never 
look  for  great  things  from  self-interest :  interests  may  change ; 
but  look  for  anything  from  feeling,  from  religious  faith,  mon- 
archical faith,  patriotic  faith.  These  three  beliefs  alone  can 
produce  a  Berthereau  of  Geneva,  a  Sydney  or  a  Strafford  in 
England,  assassins  to  murder  Thomas  a  Becket,  or  a  Monte- 
cuculi ;  Jacques  Coeur  and  Jeanne  d'Arc,  or  Richelieu  and  Dan- 
ton  ;  a  Bonchamp,  a  Talmont,  or  a  Clement,  a  Chabot. 

Charles  V  made  use  of  the  highest  personages  to  carry  out 
the  murder  of  three  ambassadors  from  Francis  I.  A  year  later 
Lorenzino,  Catherine's  cousin,  assassinated  Duke  Alessandro 
after  three  years  of  dissimulation,  and  in  circumstances  which 
gained  him  the  surname  of  the  Florentine  Brutus.  The  rank 
of  the  victim  was  so  little  a  check  on  such  undertakings  that 
neither  Leo  X  nor  Clement  VII  seems  to  have  died  a  natural 
death.  Mariana,  the  historian  of  Philip  II,  almost  jests  in 
speaking  of  the  death  of  the  Queen  of  Spain,  a  princess  of 
France,  saying  that  "  for  the  greater  glory  of  the  Spanish  throne 
God  suffered  the  blindness  of  the  doctors  who  treated  the  Queen 
for  dropsy."  When  King  Henri  II  allowed  himself  to  utter  a 
scandal  which  deserved  a  sword-thrust,  he  could  find  La  Cha- 
taignerie  willing  to  take  it.  At  that  time  royal  personages  had 
their  meals  served  to  them  in  padlocked  boxes  of  which  they 
had  the  key.  Hence  the  droit  de  cadenas,  the  right  of  the  pad- 
lock, an  honor  which  ceased  to  exist  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV 

The  Dauphin  died  of  poison,  the  same  perhaps  as  caused  the 
death  of  Madame,  under  Louis  XIV.  Pope  Clement  had  been 
dead  two  years;  Duke  Alessandro,  steeped  in  debauchery, 
seemed  to  have  no  interest  in  the  Due  d'Orleans's  elevation. 
Catherine,  now  seventeen  years  old,  was  with  her  father-in-law, 
whom  she  devotedly  admired  ;  Charles  V  alone  seemed  to  have 
an  interest  in  the  Dauphin's  death,  because  Francis  I  intended 
his  son  to  form  an  alliance  which  would  have  extended  the 


ABOUT   CATHERINE   DE    MEDICI  271 

power  of  France.  Thus  the  Count's  confession  was  very  in- 
geniously based  on  the  passions  and  pohcy  of  the  day.  Charles 
V  had  fled  after  seeing  his  troops  overwhelmed  in  Provence, 
and  with  them  his  good  fortune,  his  reputation,  and  his  hopes 
of  aggrandizement.  And  note,  that  even  if  an  innocent  man- 
had  confessed  under  torture,  the  King  afterwards  gave  him 
freedom  of  speech  before  an  august  assembly,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  men  with  whom  innocence  had  a  fair  chance  of  a  hear- 
ing.    The  King  wanted  the  truth,  and  sought  it  in  good  faith. 

In  spite  of  her  now  brilliant  prospects,  Catherine's  position 
at  court  was  unchanged  by  the  Dauphin's  death ;  her  childless- 
ness made  a  divorce  seem  probable  when  her  husband  should 
become  king.  The  Dauphin  was  now  enslaved  by  Diane  de 
Poitiers,  who  had  dared  to  be  the  rival  of  Madame  d'Etampes. 
Catherine  was  therefore  doubly  attentive  and  insinuating  to 
her  father-in-law,  understanding  that  he  was  her  sole  main- 
stay. 

Thus  the  first  ten  years  of  Catherine's  married  life  were  spent 
in  the  unceasing  regrets  caused  by  repeated  disappointments 
when  she  hoped  to  have  a  child,  and  the  vexations  of  her  rivalry 
with  Diane.  Imagine  what  the  life  must  be  of  a  princess  con- 
stantly spied  on  by  a  jealous  mistress  who  was  favored  by  the 
Catholic  party,  and  by  the  strong  support  the  Senechale  had 
acquired  through  the  marriage  of  her  daughters — one  to  Robert 
de  la  Mark,  Due  de  Bouillon,  Prince  de  Sedan ;  the  other  to 
Claude  de  Lorraine,  Due  d'Aumale. 

Swamped  between  the  party  of  the  Duchesse  d'Etampes  and 
that  of  the  Senechale  (the  title  borne  by  Diane  de  Poitiers  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  Francis  I),  who  divided  the  Court  and  political 
feeling  between  the  two  mortal  foes,  Catherine  tried  to  be  the 
friend  of  both  the  Duchess  and  Diane  de  Poitiers.  She,  who 
was  to  become  so  great  a  queen,  played  the  part  of  a  subaltern. 
Thus  she  served  her  apprenticeship  to  the  double-faced  policy 
whick  afterwards  was  the  secret  clew  to  her  life.  At  a  later 
date  the  Queen  found  herself  between  the  Catholics  and  the 
Calvinists,  as  the  woman  had  been,  for  ten  years,  between  Ma- 
dame d'Etampes  and  Madame  de  Poitiers. 

She  studied  the  contradictions  of  French  policy.  Francis 
upheld  Calvin  and  the  Lutherans,  to  annoy  Charles  V.  Then, 
after  having  cpvertly  and  patiently  fostered  the  RcfQjruialiuu  in 


272  BALZAC 

Germany,  after  tolerating  Calvin's  presence  at  the  Court  of 
Navarre,  he  turned  against  it  with  undisguised  severity.  So 
Catherine  could  see  the  Court  and  the  women  of  the  Court  play- 
ing with  the  fire  of  heresy ;  Diane  at  the  head  of  the  Catholic 
party  with  the  Guises,  only  because  the  Duchesse  d'Etampes 
was  on  the  side  of  Calvin  and  the  Protestants. 

This  was  Catherine's  political  education ;  and  in  the  King's 
private  circle  she  could  study  the  mistakes  made  by  the  Medici. 
The  Dauphin  was  antagonistic  to  his  father  on  every  point ;  he 
was  a  bad  son.  He  forgot  the  hardest  but  the  truest  axiom  of 
royalty,  namely,  that  the  throne  is  a  responsible  entity,  and  that 
a  son  who  may  oppose  his  father  during  his  lifetime  must  carry 
out  his  policy  on  succeeding  to  the  throne.  Spinoza,  who  was 
as  deep  a  politician  as  he  was  a  great  philosopher,  says,  in 
treating  of  the  case  of  a  king  who  has  succeeded  to  another  by 
a  revolution  or  by  treason :  "  If  the  new  king  hopes  to  secure 
his  throne  and  protect  his  life,  he  must  display  so  much  zeal  in 
avenging  his  predecessor's  death  that  no  one  shall  feel  tempted 
to  repeat  such  a  crime.  But  to  avenge  him  worthily  it  is  not 
enough  that  he  should  shed  the  blood  of  his  subjects ;  he  must 
confirm  the  maxims  of  him  whose  place  he  fills,  and  walk  in 
the  same  ways  of  government." 

It  was  the  application  of  this  principle  which  gave  the  Medici 
to  Florence.  Cosmo  I,  Alessandro's  successor,  eleven  years 
later  instigated  the  murder,  at  Venice,  of  the  Florentine  Brutus, 
and,  as  has  been  said,  persecuted  the  Strozzi  without  mercy.  It 
was  the  neglect  of  this  principle  that  overthrew  Louis  XVI. 
That  king  was  false  to  every  principle  of  government  when  he 
reinstated  the  Parlcments  suppressed  by  his  grandfather.  Louis 
XV  had  been  clear-sighted ;  the  Parlements,  and  especially  that 
of  Paris,  were  quite  half  to  blame  for  the  disorders  that  neces- 
sitated the  assembling  of  the  States-General.  Louis  XV's  mis- 
take was  that  when  he  threw  down  that  barrier  between  the 
throne  and  the  people,  he  did  not  erect  a  stronger  one,  that  he 
did  not  substitute  for  the  Parlements  a  strong  constitutional  rule 
in  the  provinces.  There  lay  the  remedy  for  the  evils  of  the 
monarchy,  the  voting  power  for  taxation  and  the  incidence  of 
the  taxes,  with  consent  gradually  won  to  the  reforms  needed  in 
the  monarchical  rule. 

Henri  IPs  first  act  was  to  give  all  his  confidence  to  the  Con- 


ABOUT   CATHERINE   DE   MEDICI  273 

netable  de  Montmorency,  whom  his  father  had  desired  him  to 
leave  in  banishment.  The  Connetablc  de  Montmorency,  with 
Diane  de  Poitiers,  to  whom  he  was  closely  attached,  was  mas- 
ter of  the  kingdom.  Hence  Catherine  was  even  less  powerful 
and  happy  as  Queen  of  France  than  she  had  been  as  the  Dau- 
phiness. 

At  first,  from  the  year  1543,  she  had  a  child  every  year  for 
ten  years,  and  was  fully  taken  up  by  her  maternal  functions  dur- 
ing that  time,  which  included  the  last  years  of  Francis  Fs  reign, 
and  almost  the  whole  of  her  husband's.  Being  thus  kept  out  of 
the  tide  of  affairs,  this  clever  woman  spent  her  time  in  observ- 
ing all  the  interests  of  the  persons  at  Court,  and  all  the  parties 
formed  there.  The  Italians  who  had  followed  her  excited  vio- 
lent suspicions.  After  the  execution  of  Montecuculi,  the  Con- 
netablc de  Montmorency,  Diane,  and  most  of  the  crafty  politi- 
cians at  Court  were  racked  with  doubts  of  the  Medici;  but 
Francis  I  always  scouted  them.  Still  the  Gondi,  the  Biraguas, 
the  Strozzi,  the  Ruggieri,  the  Sardini,  in  short,  all  who  were 
classed  as  the  Italians  who  had  arrived  in  Catherine's  wake, 
were  compelled  to  exercise  every  faculty  of  wit,  policy,  and 
courage  to  enable  them  to  remain  at  Court  under  the  burden  of 
disfavor  that  weighed  on  them.  During  the  supremacy  of  Di- 
ane de  Poitiers,  Catherine's  obligingness  went  so  far  that  some 
clever  folks  have  seen  in  it  an  evidence  of  the  profound  dis- 
simulation to  which  she  was  compelled  by  men  and  circum- 
stances, and  by  the  conduct  of  Henri  II.  But  it  is  going  too 
far  to  say  that  she  never  asserted  her  rights  as  a  wife  and  a 
queen.  Her  ten  children  (besides  one  dead  born)  were  a 
sufficient  explanation  of  the  King's  conduct,  who  was  thus  set 
free  to  spend  his  time  with  Diane  de  Poitiers.  But  the  King 
certainly  never  fell  short  of  what  he  owed  to  himself;  he  gave 
the  Queen  an  entry  worthy  of  any  that  had  previously  taken 
place,  on  the  occasion  of  her  coronation.  The  records  of  the 
Parlement  and  of  the  Exchequer  prove  that  these  two  important 
bodies  went  to  meet  Catherine  outside  Paris,  as  far  as  Saint- 
Lazare.     Here,  indeed,  is  a  passage  from  du  Tillet's  narrative : 

"  A  scaffolding  had  been  erected  at  Saint-Lazare,  whereon 
was  a  throne  (which  du  Tillet  calls  a  chair  of  state,  chaire  de 
parement).  Catherine  seated  herself  on  this,  dressed  in  a  sur- 
coat,  or  sort  of  cape  of  ermine,  covered  with  jewels ;  beneath 


2  74  BALZAC 

it  a  bodice,  with  a  court  train,  and  on  her  head  a  crown  of  pearls 
and  diamonds ;  she  was  supported  by  the  Marechale  de  la  Mark, 
her  lady  of  honor.  Around  her,  standing,  were  the  princes  of 
the  blood  and  other  princes  and  noblemen  richly  dressed,  with 
the  Chancellor  of  France  in  a  robe  of  cloth  of  gold  in  a  pattern 
on  a  ground  of  red  cramoisy.^  In  front  of  the  Queen  and  on 
the  same  scaffolding  were  seated,  in  two  rows,  twelve  duchesses 
and  countesses,  dressed  in  surcoats  of  ermine,  stomachers, 
trains,  and  fillets,  that  is  to  say,  coronets,  whether  duchesses  or 
countesses.  There  were  the  Duchesses  d'Estouteville,  de  Mont- 
pensier — the  elder  and  the  younger — the  Princesse  de  la  Roche- 
sur-Yon ;  the  Duchesses  de  Guise,  de  Nivernois,  d'Aumale,  de 
Valentinois  (Diane  de  Poitiers)  ;  the  King's  daughter  Di- 
ane, who  became  Duchesse  de  Castro-Farnese,  and  afterwards 
Duchesse  de  Montmorency-Damville),  Madame  la  Connetable, 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Nemours,  not  to  mention  the  other  ladies 
who  could  find  no  room.  The  four  capped  Presidents  (d 
mortier),  with  some  other  members  of  the  Court  and  the  chief 
clerk,  Du  Tillet,  went  up  on  to  the  platform  and  did  their  ser- 
vice, and  the  First  President  Lizet,  kneeling  on  one  knee,  ad- 
dressed the  Queen.  The  Chancellor,  likewise  on  one  knee, 
made  response.  She  made  her  entrance  into  Paris  at  about 
three  in  the  afternoon,  riding  in  an  open  litter,  Madame  Mar- 
guerite de  France  sitting  opposite  to  her,  and  by  the  side  of  the 
litter  came  the  Cardinals  d'Amboise,  de  Chatillon,  de  Boulogne, 
and  de  Lenoncourt,  in  their  rochets.  She  got  out  at  the  Church 
of  Notre-Dame,  and  was  received  by  the  clergy.  After  she  had 
made  her  prayer,  she  was  carried  along  the  Rue  de  la  Calandre 
to  the  palace,  where  the  royal  supper  was  spread  in  the  great 
hall.  She  sat  there  in  the  middle  at  a  marble  table,  under  a 
canopy  of  velvet  powdered  with  gold  fleurs-de-lys." 

It  will  here  be  fitting  to  controvert  a  popular  error  which 
some  persons  have  perpetuated,  following  Sauval  in  the  mis- 
take. It  has  been  said  that  Henri  II  carried  his  oblivion  of 
decency  so  far  as  to  place  Diane's  initials  even  on  the  build- 
ings which  Catherine  had  advised  him  to  undertake  or  to 
carry  on  at  such  lavish  expense.  But  the  cipher,  which  is  to 
be  seen  at  the  Louvre,  amply  refutes  those  who  have  so  little 

»  The  old  French  word  "  cramoisi  "  did        noted  a  special  excellence  of  the  dye.    (See 
not  mean  merely  a  crimson  red,  but  de-        Rabelais.) 


ABOUT   CATHERINE    DE   MEDICI  275 

comprehension  as  to  lend  credit  to  such  nonsense,  a  gratuitous 
skir  on  the  honor  of  our  kings  and  queens.  The  H  for  Henri 
and  the  two  C's,  face  to  face,  for  Catherine  seem  indeed  to  make 
two  D's  for  Diane ;  and  this  coincidence  was  no  doubt  pleasing 
to  the  King.  But  it  is  not  the  less  certain  that  the  royal  cipher 
was  officially  constructed  of  the  initials  of  the  King  and  the 
Queen.  And  this  is  so  true,  that  the  same  cipher  is  still  to  be 
seen  on  the  corn-market  in  Paris  which  Catherine  herself  had 
built.  It  may  also  be  found  in  the  crypt  of  Saint-Denis  on 
Catherine's  tomb,  which  she  caused  to  be  constructed  during 
her  lifetime  by  the  side  of  that  of  Henri  H,  and  on  which  she 
is  represented  from  life  by  the  sculptor  to  whom  she  sat. 

On  a  solemn  occasion,  when  he  was  setting  out  on  an  expedi- 
tion to  Germany,  Henri  H  proclaimed  Catherine  Regent  during 
his  absence,  as  also  in  the  event  of  his  death — on  March  25, 
1552.  Catherine's  bitterest  enemy,  the  author  of  the  "  Discours 
merveillcux  sur  les  deportements  de  Catherine  II,"  admits  that 
she  acquitted  herself  of  these  functions  to  the  general  approba- 
tion, and  that  the  King  was  satisfied  with  her  administration. 
Henri  H  had  men  and  money  at  the  right  moment.  And  after 
the  disastrous  day  of  Saint-Quentin,  Catherine  obtained  from 
the  Parisians  considerable  sums,  which  she  forwarded  to  Com- 
piegne,  whither  the  King  had  come. 

In  politics  Catherine  made  immense  efforts  to  acquire  some 
little  influence.  She  was  clever  enough  to  gain  over  to  her  in- 
terests the  Connetable  de  Montmorency,  who  was  all-powerful 
under  Henri  H.  The  King's  terrible  reply  to  Montmorency's 
insistency  is  well  known.  This  answer  was  the  result  of  the 
good  advice  given  by  Catherine  in  the  rare  moments  when  she 
was  alone  with  the  King,  and  could  explain  to  him  the  policy 
of  the  Florentines,  which  was  to  set  the  magnates  of  a  kingdom 
by  the  ears  and  build  up  the  sovereign  authority  on  the  ruins 
— Louis  XFs  system,  subsequently  carried  out  by  Richelieu. 
Henri  H,  who  saw  only  through  the  eyes  of  Diane  and  the  Con- 
netable, was  quite  a  feudal  king,  and  on  friendly  terms  with  the 
great  houses  of  the  realm. 

After  an  ineffectual  effort  in  her  favor  made  by  the  Conne- 
table, probably  in  the  year  1556,  Catherine  paid  great  court  to 
the  Guises,  and  schemed  to  detach  them  from  Diane's  party  so 
as  to  set  them  in  opposition  to  Montmorency.     But,  unfortu- 


2  7©  BALZAC 

nately,  Diane  and  the  Connetable  were  as  virulent  against  the 
Protestants  as  the  Guises  were.  Hence  their  antagonism 
lacked  the  virus  which  rehgious  feehng  would  have  given  it. 
Besides,  Diane  boldly  defied  the  Queen's  plans  by  coquetting 
with  the  Guises  and  giving  her  daughter  to  the  Due  d'Aumale. 

The  signs  of  grief  and  the  ostentatious  regret  displayed  by 
Catherine  on  the  King's  death  cannot  be  regarded  as  genuine. 
The  fact  that  Henri  II  had  been  so  passionately  and  faithfully 
attached  to  Diane  de  Poitiers  made  it  incumbent  on  Catherine 
that  she  should  play  the  part  of  a  neglected  wife  who  idolized 
her  husband ;  but,  like  every  clever  woman,  she  carried  on  her 
dissimulation,  and  never  ceased  to  speak  with  tender  regret 
of  Plenri  II.  Diane  herself,  it  is  well  known,  wore  mourning 
all  her  life  for  her  husband.  Monsieur  de  Breze.  Her  colors 
were  black  and  white,  and  the  King  was  wearing  them  at  the 
tournament  where  he  was  fatally  wounded.  Catherine,  in  im- 
itation no  doubt  of  her  rival,  wore  mourning  for  the  King  to 
the  end  of  her  life. 

On  the  King's  death  the  Duchesse  de  Valentinois  was  shame- 
lessly deserted  and  dishonored  by  the  Connetable  de  Mont- 
morency, a  man  in  every  respect  beneath  his  reputation.  Diane 
sent  to  offer  her  estate  and  chateau  of  Chenonceaux  to  the 
Queen.  Catherine  then  replied  in  the  presence  of  witnesses, 
"  I  can  never  forget  that  she  was  all  the  joy  of  my  dear  Henri ; 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  accept,  I  will  give  her  an  estate  in  ex- 
change. I  would  propose  that  of  Chaumont-on-the-Loire." 
The  deed  of  exchange  was,  in  fact,  signed  at  Blois  in  1559. 
Diane,  whose  sons-in-law  were  the  Due  d'Aumale  and  the  Due 
de  Bouillon,  kept  her  whole  fortune  and  died  peacefully  in  1566 
at  the  age  of  sixty-six.  She  was  thus  nineteen  years  older  than 
Henri  II.  These  dates,  copied  from  the  epitaph  on  her  tomb 
by  a  historian  who  studied  the  question  at  the  end  of  the  last 
century,  clear  up  many  historical  difficulties;  for  many  writers 
have  said  she  was  forty  when  her  father  was  sentenced  in  1523, 
while  others  have  said  she  was  but  sixteen.  She  was,  in  fact, 
four-and-twenty. 

After  reading  everything  both  for  and  against  her  conduct 
with  Francis  I,  at  a  time  when  the  House  of  Poitiers  was  in  the 
greatest  danger,  we  can  neither  confirm  nor  deny  anything.  It 
is  a  passage  of  history  that  still  remains  obscure.     We  can  see 


ABOUT   CATHERINE   DE   MEDICI  277 

by  what  happens  in  our  own  day  how  history  is  falsified,  as  it 
were,  in  the  making. 

Catherine,  who  founded  great  hopes  on  her  rival's  age,  sev- 
eral times  made  an  attempt  to  overthrow  her.  On  one  occasion 
she  was  very  near  the  accomplishment  of  her  hopes.  In  1554, 
Madame  Diane,  being  ill,  begged  the  King  to  go  to  Saint-Ger- 
main pending  her  recovery.  This  sovereign  coquette  would 
not  be  seen  in  the  midst  of  the  paraphernalia  of  doctors,  nor 
bereft  of  the  adjuncts  of  dress.  To  receive  the  King  on  his 
return,  Catherine  arranged  a  splendid  ballet,  in  which  five  or 
six  young  ladies  were  to  address  him  in  verse.  She  selected 
for  the  purpose  Miss  Fleming,  related  to  her  uncle,  the  Duke  of 
Albany,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  imaginable,  fair  and  gold- 
en-haired ;  then  a  young  connection  of  her  own,  Clarissa  Strozzi, 
with  magnificent  black  hair  and  rarely  fine  hands ;  Miss  Lewis- 
ton,  maid  of  honor  to  Mary  Stuart;  Mary  Stuart  herself; 
Madame  Elisabeth  de  France,  the  unhappy  Queen  of  Spain; 
and  Madame  Claude.  Elisabeth  was  nine  years  old,  Claude 
eight,  and  Mary  Stuart  twelve.  Obviously,  the  Queen  aimed 
at  showing  off  Clarissa  Strozzi  and  Miss  Fleming  without  other 
rivals  in  the  King's  eyes.  The  King  succumbed ;  he  fell  in  love 
with  Miss  Fleming,  and  she  bore  him  a  son,  Henri  de  Valois, 
Comte  d'Angouleme,  Grand  Prior  of  France. 

But  Diane's  influence  and  position  remained  unshaken.  Like 
Madame  de  Pompadour  later  with  Louis  XV,  the  Duchesse  de 
Valentinois  was  forgiving.  But  to  what  sort  of  love  are  we 
to  ascribe  this  scheme  on  Catherine's  part  ?  Love  of  power  or 
love  of  her  husband  ?     Women  must  decide. 

A  great  deal  is  said  in  these  days  as  to  the  license  of  the  press  ; 
but  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  to  what  a  pitch  it  was  carried 
when  printing  was  a  new  thing,  Aretino,  the  Voltaire  of  his 
time,  as  is  well  known,  made  monarchs  tremble,  and  foremost 
of  them  all  Charles  V.  But  few  people  know  perhaps  how  far 
the  audacity  of  pamphleteers  could  go.  This  chateau  of  Che- 
nonccaux  had  been  given  to  Diane,  nay,  she  was  entreated  to 
accept  it,  to  induce  her  to  overlook  one  of  the  most  horrible  pub- 
lications ever  hurled  at  a  woman,  one  which  shows  how  violent 
was  the  animosity  between  her  and  Madame  d'Etampes.  In 
1537,  when  she  was  eight-and-thirty,  a  poet  of  Champagne, 
named  Jean  Voute,  published  a  collection  of  Latin  verses,  and 


278  BALZAC  "^ 

among  them  three  epigrams  aimed  at  her.  We  must  conclude 
that  the  poet  was  under  high  patronage  from  the  fact  that  his 
volume  is  introduced  by  a  eulogium  written  by  Simon  Macrin, 
the  King's  first  Gentleman  of  the  Bed-Chamber. 

This  volume,  printed  by  Simon  de  Colines,  was  dedicated 
**  To  a  Bishop !  " — To  Frangois  Bohier,  the  brother  of  the  man 
who,  to  save  his  credit  at  Court  and  atone  for  his  crime,  made 
an  offering  on  the  accession  of  Henri  II  of  the  chateau  of  Che- 
nonceaux,  built  by  his  father,  Thomas  Bohier,  Councillor  of 
State  under  four  kings:  Louis  XI,  Charles  VIII,  Louis  XII, 
and  Francis  I.  What  were  the  pamphlets  published  against 
Madame  de  Pompadour  and  Marie  Antoinette  in  comparison 
with  verses  that  might  have  been  written  by  Martial !  Voute 
must  have  come  to  a  bad  end.  Thus  the  estate  and  chateau  of 
Chenonceaux  cost  Diane  nothing  but  the  forgiveness  of  an  of- 
fence— a  duty  enjoined  by  the  Gospel.  Not  being  assessed  by 
a  jury,  the  penalties  inflicted  on  the  press  were  rather  severer 
then  than  they  are  now. 

The  widowed  Queens  of  France  were  required  to  remain  for 
forty  days  in  the  King's  bed-chamber,  seeing  no  light  but  that 
of  the  tapers;  they  might  not  come  out  till  after  the  funeral. 
This  inviolable  custom  annoyed  Catherine  greatly ;  she  was 
afraid  of  cabals.  She  found  a  way  to  evade  it.  The  Cardinal 
de  Lorraine  walking  one  morning  in  the  Rue  Culture-Sainte- 
Catherine,  was  roughly  handled  by  a  party  of  roisterers. 
"  Whereat  his  Holiness  was  much  amazed,"  says  Henri  Esti- 
enne,  "  and  gave  it  out  that  heretics  were  lying  in  wait  for  him." 
And  on  this  account  the  Court  moved  from  Paris  to  Saint-Ger- 
main. The  Queen  would  not  leave  the  King  her  son  behind, 
but  took  him  with  her. 

The  accession  of  Francis  II,  the  moment  when  Catherine  pro- 
posed to  seize  the  reins  of  power,  was  a  disappointment  that 
formed  a  cruel  climax  to  the  twenty-six  years  of  endurance  she 
had  already  spent  at  the  French  Court.  The  Guises,  with  in- 
credil)lc  audacity,  at  once  usurped  the  sovereign  power.  The 
Due  de  Guise  was  placed  in  command  of  the  army,  and  the  Con- 
netable  de  Montmorency  was  shelved.  The  Cardinal  took  the 
control  of  the  finances  and  the  clergy. 

Catliorinc's  political  career  opened  with  one  of  those  dramas 
which,  though  it  was  less  notorious  than  some  others,  was  not 


ABOUT   CATHERINE   DE   MEDICI  279 

the  less  horrible,  and  initiated  her  no  doubt  into  the  apfitatinp^ 
shocks  of  her  life.  Whether  it  was  that  Catherine,  after  vainly 
trying  the  most  violent  remedies,  had  thought  she  might  bring 
the  King  back  to  her  through  jealousy ;  whether  on  coming  to 
her  second  youth  she  had  felt  it  hard  never  to  have  known  love, 
she  had  shown  a  warm  interest  in  a  gentleman  of  royal  blood, 
Frangois  de  Vendome,  son  of  Louis  de  Vendome — the  parent 
House  of  the  Bourbons — the  Vidame  de  Chartres,  the  name  by 
which  he  is  known  to  history.  Catherine's  covert  hatred  of  Di- 
ane betrayed  itself  in  many  ways,  which  historians,  studying 
only  political  developments,  have  failed  to  note  with  due  atten- 
tion. Catherine's  attachment  to  the  Vidame  arose  from  an  in- 
sult offered  by  the  young  man  to  the  favorite.  Diane  looked 
for  the  most  splendid  matches  for  her  daughters,  who  were  in- 
deed of  the  best  blood  in  the  kingdom.  Above  all,  she  was 
ambitious  of  an  alliance  with  the  royal  family.  And  her  second 
daughter,  who  became  the  Duchesse  d'Aumale,  was  proposed 
in  marriage  to  the  Vidame,  whom  Francis  I,  with  sage  policy, 
kept  in  poverty.  For,  in  fact,  when  the  Vidame  de  Chartres 
and  the  Prince  de  Conde  first  came  to  Court,  Francis  I  gave 
them  appointments !  What  ?  the  office  of  chamberlains  in  or- 
dinary, with  twelve  hundred  crowns  a  year,  as  much  as  he  be- 
stowed on  the  humblest  of  his  gentlemen.  And  yet,  though 
Diane  offered  him  immense  wealth,  some  high  office  under  the 
Crown,  and  the  King's  personal  favor,  the  Vidame  refused. 
And  then  this  Bourbon,  factious  as  he  was,  married  Jeanne, 
daughter  of  the  Baron  d'Estissac,  by  whom  he  had  no  children. 

This  proud  demeanor  naturally  commended  the  Vidame  to 
Catherine,  who  received  him  with  marked  favor,  and  made  hira 
her  devoted  friend.  Historians  have  compared  the  last  Due  de 
Montmorency,  who  was  beheaded  at  Toulouse,  with  the  Vidame 
de  Chartres  for  his  power  of  charming,  his  merits,  and  his  tal- 
ents. 

Henri  H  was  not  jealous ;  he  did  not  apparently  think  it  pos- 
sible that  a  Queen  of  France  could  fail  in  her  duty,  or  that  a 
Medici  could  forget  the  honor  done  her  by  a  Valois.  When 
the  Queen  was  said  to  be  flirting  with  the  Vidame  de  Chartres, 
she  had  been  almost  deserted  by  the  King  since  the  birth  of  her 
last  child.  So  this  attempt  came  to  nothing — as  the  King  died 
wearinsr  the  colors  of  Diane  de  Poitiers. 


28o  BALZAC 

Henri  II's  four  sons  nullified  every  pretension  of  the  Bour- 
bons, who  were  all  miserably  poor,  and  crushed  under  the  scorn 
brought  upon  them  by  the  Connetable  de  Montmorency's  trea- 
son, in  spite  of  the  reasons  which  had  led  himjto  quit  the  coun- 
try. The  Vidame  de  Chartres,  who  was  to  the  first  Prince  de 
Conde  what  Richelieu  was  to  Mazarin,  a  father  in  politics,  a 
model,  and  yet  more  a  master  in  gallantry,  hid  the  vast  ambi- 
tion of  his  family  under  a  semblance  of  levity.  Being  unable 
to  contend  with  the  Guises,  the  Montmorencys,  the  Princes  of 
Scotland,  the  Cardinals,  and  the  Bouillons,  he  aimed  at  dis- 
tinction by  his  gracious  manners,  his  elegance,  and  his  wit, 
which  won  him  the  favor  of  the  most  charming  women,  and 
the  heart  of  many  he  never  thought  about.  He  was  a  man 
privileged  by  nature,  whose  fascinations  were  irresistible. 

During  the  first  twenty  days  of  mourning  for  Henri  H  a  sud- 
den change  came  over  the  Vidame's  prospects.  Courted  by  the 
Queen-mother,  and  courting  her  as  a  man  may  court  a  queen, 
in  the  utmost  secrecy,  he  seemed  fated  to  play  an  important  part ; 
and  Catherine,  in  fact,  resolved  to  make  him  useful.  The 
Prince  received  letters  from  her  to  the  Prince  de  Conde,  in 
which  she  pointed  out  the  necessity  for  a  coalition  against  the 
Guises.  The  Guises,  informed  of  this  intrigue,  made  their  way 
into  the  Queen's  chamber  to  compel  her  to  sign  an  order  con- 
signing the  Vidame  to  the  Bastille,  and  Catherine  found  herself 
under  the  cruel  necessity  of  submitting.  The  Vidame  died  af- 
ter a  few  months'  captivity,  on  the  day  when  he  came  out  of 
prison,  a  short  time  before  the  Amboise  conspiracy. 

This  was  the  end  of  Catherine  De  Medici's  first  and  only  love- 
affair.  Protestant  writers  declared  that  the  Queen  had  him 
poisoned  to  bury  the  secret  of  her  flirtation  in  the  tomb. 

Such  was  this  woman's  apprenticeship  to  the  exercise  of  royal 
power. 


DON    QUIXOTE 


BY 


HEINRICH     HEINE 


M— ^'ol.  60 


HEINRICH  HEINE 

1799—1856 

Heinrich  Heine  was  born  of  Hebrew  parents  at  Diisseldorf  on  the 
Rhine,  in  1799.  His  favorite  books  in  childhood,  he  tells  us,  were 
"  Gulliver's  Travels,"  Sterne's  "  Sentimental  Journey,"  and  "  Don 
Quixote."  Later  in  life  he  made  Don  Quixote  the  subject  of  one  of 
his  most  charming  and  characteristic  essays.  His  parents  desiring 
him  to  follow  a  business  career,  he  was  sent  to  Hamburg  to  serve  an 
apprenticeship  in  the  banking  house  of  his  uncle,  Solomon  Heine. 
This  proving  distasteful  to  him,  he  was  enabled  through  pecuniary 
assistance  from  his  uncle  to  study  law  at  Bonn,  Berlin,  and  Gottingen. 
He  received  his  degree  at  Gottingen  in  1825,  after  embracing  Chris- 
tianity. The  first  collection  of  his  poems,  "  Gedichte,"  was  published 
in  1822.  This  was  followed  by  a  volume  of  verse  called  "  Buch  des  Lie- 
der,"  in  1827,  which  received  favorable  notice  from  the  critics,  and  was 
translated  into  English  by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  "  Neue  Gedichte," 
which  contains  some  of  his  finest  lyrics,  appeared  in  1844.  From  1826 
to  1831  the  four  books  of  the  "  Reisebilder  "  were  published.  They 
were  characterized  at  that  time  as  "  the  most  brilliant,  the  wittiest, 
the  most  entertaining,  the  most  immoral,  the  coarsest,  the  most  dan- 
gerous, the  most  revolutionary,  the  most  atheistic  books  that  any 
German  author  had  ever  printed."  The  work  was  interdicted  in  Ger- 
many, Austria,  and  other  monarchical  countries  on  account  of  its 
strong  revolutionary  sympathies,  but  was,  nevertheless,  widely  circu- 
lated. While  the  '  Reisebilder  "  greatly  increased  Heine's  fame,  the 
work  also  made  few  him  a  host  of  bitter  enemies. 

In  1831  Heine  left  Germany  and  settled  in  Paris.  For  sixteen  years, 
he  mingled  with  the  society  of  authors  and  artists  in  that  literary  and 
artistic  capital,  met  and  finally  married  his  "  Mathilde,"  and  did  much 
literary  work,  both  good  and  bad.  His  "  History  of  Religion  and 
Philosophy  in  Germany,"  and  essays  on  the  Romantic  school,  appeared 
during  this  period,  in  addition  to  the  volume  of  poems  referred  to  above. 

In  1847  his  uncle,  Solomon  Heine,  died,  and  the  heirs  attempted  to 
deprive  Heine  of  the  small  annual  allowance  he  had  always  received 
from  his  generous  relative,  and  also  of  a  legacy  he  had  been  promised. 
Their  greed  ultimately  failed  of  its  purpose,  but  the  excitement  broke 
down  the  poet's  enfeebled  constitution  and  brought  on  a  terrible  disease 
of  the  spine  that  made  his  last  years  a  period  of  physical  agony.  Yet, 
during  the  eight  years  of  suffering  on  his  "  mattress-grave,"  Heine's 
spirit  never  yielded,  nor  did  his  courage  and  gayety  ever  flag.  From 
1850  to  1851  he  produced  the  wonderful  series  of  poems  entitled  "  Ro- 
manzcro,"  and  from  1852  to  1854  dictated  his  "  Last  Poems "  and 
"  Confessions."  He  died  in  1856,  and  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of 
Montmarte,  in  accordance  with  his  expressed  wish. 

Heine  was  pre-eminently  a  poet,  his  lyrics  ranking  with  the  best  of 
Schiller  and  Goethe.  His  prose  sparkles  with  wit  and  satire,  and  has, 
therefore,  won  enduring  popularity.  His  style  is  lucid  and  incisive 
and  marked  by  a  purity  and  directness  of  diction  unsurpassed  in  Ger- 
man literature. 


a8a 


DON  QUIXOTE 

THE  first  book  that  I  read  after  I  arrived  at  boyhood's 
years  of  discretion,  and  had  tolerably  mastered  my  let- 
ters, was  "  The  Life  and  Deeds  of  the  Sagacious  Knight, 
Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,"  written  by  Miguel  Cervante^  de 
Saavedra.^  Well  do  I  remember  the  time,  when,  early  in  the 
morning,  I  stole  away  from  home  and  hastened  to  the  court- 
garden,  that  I  might  read  "  Don  Quixote  "  without  being  dis- 
turbed. It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  May,  the  blooming  spring 
lay  basking  in  the  silent  morning  light,  listening  to  the  com- 
pliments of  that  sweet  flatterer,  the  nightingale,  who  sang  so 
softly  and  caressingly,  with  such  a  melting  fervor,  that  even 
the  shyest  of  buds  burst  into  blossom,  and  the  lusty  grasses 
and  the  fragrant  sunshine  kissed  more  rapturously,  and  the'trees 
and  flowers  trembled  from  very  ecstasy.  But  I  seated  myself 
on  an  old  moss-covered  stone  bench  in  the  so-called  Avenue  of 
Sighs,  not  far  from  the  water-fall,  and  feasted  my  little  heart 
with  the  thrilling  adventures  of  the  valiant  knight.  In  my  child- 
ish simplicity  I  took  everything  in  sober  earnest ;  no  matter  how 
ridiculous  the  mishaps  which  fate  visited  upon  the  poor  hero,  I 
thought  it  must  be  just  so,  and  imagined  that  to  be  laughed  at 
was  as  much  a  part  of  heroism  as  to  be  wounded  ;  and  the  former 
vexed  me  just  as  sorely  as  the  latter  grieved  my  heart.  I  was 
a  child,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  irony  God  has  interwoven 
into  the  world,  and  which  the  great  poet  has  imitated  in  his 
miniature  world ;  and  I  wept  most  bitterly,  when,  for  all  his 
chivalry  and  generosity,  the  noble  knight  gained  only  ingrati- 
tude and  cudgels.  As  I  was  unpractised  in  reading,  I  spoke 
every  word  aloud,  and  so  the  birds  and  the  trees,  the  brooks  and 
the  flowers,  could  hear  all  I  read,  and  as  these  innocent  beings 
know  as  little  as  children  of  the  irony  of  the  world,  they  too 
took  it  all  for  sober  earnest,  and  wept  with  me  over  the  sor- 

'  IThe    admirable    account    of    "  Don        duction   to   an   edition    de  luxe   of   Ccr- 
Quixote  "   embodied   in   this   essay   was        vantes's  masterpiece.] 
written  by  Heine  in  1837,  as  the  intro- 

283 


284  HEINE 

rows  of  the  unfortunate  knight;  an  old  worn-out  oak  sobbed 
even;  and  the  water-fall  shook  more  vehemently  his  white 
beard,  and  seemed  to  scold  at  the  wickedness  of  the  world. 
We  felt  that  the  heroism  of  the  knight  was  none  the  less 
worthy  of  admiration  because  the  lion  turned  tail  without 
fighting,  and  that  if  his  body  was  weak  and  withered,  his  armor 
rusty,  his  steed  a  miserable  jade,  his  deeds  were  all  the  more 
worthy  of  praise.  We  despised  the  vulgar  rabble  who  beat 
the  poor  hero  so  barbarously,  and  still  more  the  rabble  of 
higher  rank,  who  were  decked  in  silk  attire,  gay  courtly 
pi.  "ases,  and  grand  titles,  and  jeered  at  the  man  who  was  so 
far  their  superior  in  powers  of  mind  and  noBility  of  soul.  Dul- 
cinea's  knight  rose  ever  higher  in  my  esteem,  and  my  love  for 
him  grew  stronger  and  stronger  the  longer  I  read  in  that  won- 
derful book,  which  I  continued  to  do  daily  in  that  same  garden, 
so  that  when  autumn  came  I  had  reached  the  end  of  the  story, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  when  I  read  the  sorrowful 
combat,  in  which  the  knight  came  to  so  ignominious  an  end. 

It  was  a  gloomy  day;  dismal  clouds  swept  over  a  leaden 
sky,  the  yellow  leaves  fell  sorrowfully  from  the  trees,  heavy 
tear-drops  hung  on  the  last  flowers  that  drooped  down  in  a 
sad  faded  way  their  dying  little  heads,  the  nightingales  had 
long  since  died  away,  from  every  side  the  image  of  transitori- 
ness  stared  at  me — and  my  heart  was  ready  to  break  as  I  read 
how  the  noble  knight  lay  on  the  ground,  stunned  and  bruised, 
and  through  his  closed  visor  said,  in  tones  faint  and  feeble,  as 
if  he  was  speaking  from  the  grave,  "  Dulcinea  is  the  fairest 
lady  in  the  world,  and  I  the  Unhappiest  knight  on  earth,  but 
it  is  not  meet  that  my  weakness  should  disown  this  truth — ■ 
strike  with  your  lance,  Sir  Knight." 

Ah  me !  that  brilliant  knight  of  the  silver  moon,  who  van- 
quished the  bravest  and  noblest  man  in  the  world,  was  a  dis- 
guised barber! 

That  was  long  ago.  Many  new  springs  have  bloomed  forth 
since  then,  yet  their  mightiest  charm  has  always  been  want- 
ing, for,  alas !  I  no  longer  believe  the  sweet  deceits  of  the 
nightingale,  spring's  flatterer;  I  know  how  soon  his  magnifi- 
cence fades ;  and  when  T  look  at  the  youngest  rosebuds  1  see 
them  in  spirit  bloom  to  a  sorrowful  red,  grow  pale,  and  be 
scattered  by  the  winds.    Everywhere  I  sec  a  disguised  winter. 


DON   QUIXOTE  285 

In  my  breast,  however,  still  blooms  that  flaming  love,  which 
soared  so  ardently  above  the  earth,  to  revel  adventurously  in 
the  broad  yawning  spaces  of  heaven,  and  which,  pushed  back 
by  the  cold  stars,  and  sinking  home  again  to  the  little  earth, 
was  forced  to  confess,  with  sighing  and  triumph,  that  there  is 
in  all  creation  nothing  fairer  or  better  than  the  heart  of  man. 
This  love  is  the  inspiration  that  fills  me,  always  divine,  whether 
it  does  foolish  or  wise  deeds.  And  so  the  tears  the  little  boy 
shed  over  the  sorrows  of  the  silly  knight  were  in  nowise  spent 
in  vain,  any  more  than  the  later  tears  of  the  youth,  as  on  many 
a  night  he  wept  in  the  study  over  the  deaths  of  the  holy  heroes 
of  freedom — over  King  Agis  of  Sparta,  over  Caius  and  Tiberius 
Gracchus  of  Rome,  over  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,  and  over  Robes- 
pierre and  Saint-Just  of  Paris.  Now  that  I  have  put  on  the 
toga  virilis,  and  myself  desire  to  be  a  man,  the  tears  have  come 
to  an  end,  and  it  is  necessary  to  act  like  a  man,  imitating  my 
great  predecessors ;  in  the  future,  if  God  will,  to  be  wept  also 
by  boys  and  youths.  Yes,  upon  these  one  can  still  reckon  in 
our  cold  age ;  for  they  can  still  be  kindled  by  the  breezes  that 
blow  to  them  from  old  books,  and  so  they  can  comprehend 
the  flaming  hearts  of  the  present.  Youth  is  unselfish  in  its 
thoughts  and  feelings,  and  on  that  account  it  feels  truth  most 
deeply,  and  is  not  sparing,  where  a  bold  sympathy  is  wanted, 
with  confession  or  deed.  Older  people  are  selfish  and  narrow- 
minded;  they  think  more  of  the  interest  of  their  capital  than 
of  the  interest  of  mankind ;  they  let  their  little  boat  float  quietly 
down  the  gutter  of  life,  and  trouble  themselves  little  about  the 
sailor  who  battles  with  the  waves  on  the  open  sea ;  or  they 
creep  with  clinging  tenacity  up  to  the  heights  of  mayoralty  or 
the  presidency  of  their  club,  and  shrug  their  shoulders  over 
the  heroic  figures  which  the  storm  throws  down  from  the  col- 
umns of  fame ;  and  then  they  tell,  perhaps,  how  they  them- 
selves also  in  their  youth  ran  their  heads  against  the  wall,  but 
that  later  on  they  reconciled  themselves  to  the  wall,  for  the 
wall  was  the  absolute,  existing  by  and  for  itself,  which,  be- 
cause it  was,  was  also  reasonable,  on  which  account  he  is  un- 
reasonable who  will  not  endure  a  high,  reasonable,  inevitable, 
eternally  ordained  absolutism.  Ah,  these  objectionable  peo- 
ple, who  wish  to  philosophize  us  into  a  gentle  slavery,  are  yet 
more  worthy  of  esteem  than  those  depraved  ones  who  do  not 


2S6  HEINE 

even  admit  reasonable  grounds  for  the  defence  of  despotism, 
but  being  learned  in  history  fight  for  it  as  a  right  of  custom, 
to  which  men  in  the  course  of  time  have  gradually  accustomed 
themselves,  and  which  has  so  become  incontestably  valid  and 
lawful. 

Ah,  well !  I  will  not,  like  Ham,  lift  up  the  garment  of  my 
fatherland's  shame;  but  it  is  terrible  how  slavery  has  been 
made  with  us  a  matter  for  prating  about,  and  how  German  phi- 
losophers and  historians  have  tormented  their  brains  to  defend 
despotism,  however  silly  or  awkward,  as  reasonable  and  law- 
ful. Silence  is  the  honor  of  slaves,  says  Tacitus ;  these  philoso- 
phers and  historians  maintain  the  contrary,  and  exhibit  the 
badge  of  slavery  in  their  button-holes. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  you  are  right,  and  I  am  only  a  Don  Qui- 
xote, and  the  reading  of  all  sorts  of  wonderful  books  has  turned 
my  head,  as  it  was  with  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha,  and  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau  was  my  Amadis  of  Gaul,  Mirabeau  my  Ro- 
land or  Agramante ;  and  I  have  studied  too  much  the  heroic 
deeds  of  the  French  Paladins  and  the  round-table  of  the  Na- 
tional Convention.  Indeed,  my  madness  and  the  fixed  Ideas 
that  I  created  out  of  books  are  of  a  quite  opposite  kind  to  the 
madness  and  the  fixed  ideas  of  him  of  La  Mancha.  He  wished 
to  establish  again  the  expiring  days  of  chivalry ;  I,  on  the  con- 
trary, wish  to  annihilate  all  that  is  yet  remaining  from  that 
time,  and  so  we  work  with  altogether  different  views.  My 
colleague  saw  windmills  as  giants ;  I,  on  the  contrary,  can  see 
in  our  present  giants  only  vaunting  windmills.  He  took 
leather  wine-skins  for  mighty  enchanters,  but  I  can  see  in  the 
enchanters  of  to-day  only  leather  wine-skins.  He  held  beg- 
garly pot-houses  for  castles,  donkey-drivers  for  cavaliers, 
stable  wenches  for  court  ladies ;  I,  on  the  contrary,  hold  our 
castles  for  beggarly  pot-houses,  our  cavaliers  for  mere  donkey- 
drivers,  our  court  ladies  for  ordinary  stable  wenches.  As  he 
took  a  puppet-show  for  a  state  ceremony,  so  I  hold  our  state 
ceremonies  as  sorry  puppet-shows,  yet  as  bravely  as  the  brave 
Knight  of  La  Mancha  I  strike  out  at  the  clumsy  machinery. 
Alas !  such  heroic  deeds  often  turn  out  as  badly  for  me  as  for 
him,  and  like  him  I  must  suffer  much  for  the  honor  of  my 
lady.  If  I  denied  her  from  mere  fear  or  base  love  of  gain,  I 
miiiht  live  comfortably  in  this  reasonably  constructed  world, 


DON   QUIXOTE  287 

and  I  should  lead  a  fair  Maritorna  to  the  altar,  and  let  myself 
be  blessed  by  fat  enchanters,  and  banquet  with  noble  donkey- 
drivers,  and  engender  harmless  romances  as  well  as  other  little 
slaves !  Instead  of  that,  wearing-  the  three  colors  of  my  lady, 
I  must  strike  through  unspeakable  opposition,  and  fight  bat- 
tles, every  one  of  which  costs  me  my  heart's  blood.  Day  and 
night  I  am  in  straits,  for  those  enemies  are  so  artful  that  many 
I  struck  to  death  still  give  themselves  the  appearance  of  being 
alive,  changing  themselves  into  all  forms,  and  spoiling  day  and 
night  for  me.  How  many  sorrows  have  I  suffered  by  such  fatal 
spectres !  Where  anything  lovely  bloomed  for  me  then  they 
crept  in,  those  cunning  ghosts,  and  broke  even  the  most  in- 
nocent buds.  Everywhere,  and  when  I  should  least  suspect 
it,  I  discovered  on  the  ground  the  traces  of  their  silvery  slime, 
and  if  I  took  no  care,  I  might  have  a  dangerous  fall  even  in  the 
house  of  my  love.  You  may  smile  and  hold  such  anxieties  for 
idle  fancies  like  those  of  Don  Quixote.  But  fancied  pains  hurt 
all  the  same ;  and  if  one  fancies  that  he  has  drunk  hemlock  he 
may  get  into  a  consumption,  and  he  certainly  will  not  get  fat. 
And  the  report  that  I  have  got  fat  is  a  calumny ;  at  least  I  have 
not  yet  received  any  fat  sinecure,  even  if  I  possess  the  requisite 
talents.  I  fancy  that  everything  has  been  done  to  keep  me 
lean ;  when  I  was  hungry  they  fed  me  with  snakes,  when  I  was 
thirsty  they  gave  me  wormwood  to  drink ;  they  poured  hell 
into  my  heart,  so  that  I  wept  poison  and  sighed  fire;  they 
crouched  near  me  even  in  my  dreams ;  and  I  see  horrible 
spectres,  noble  lackey  faces  with  gnashing  teeth  and  threaten- 
ing noses,  and  deadly  eyes  glaring  from  cowls,  and  white  ruf- 
fled hands  with  gleaming  knives. 

And  even  the  old  woman  who  lives  near  me  in  the  next  room 
considers  me  to  be  mad,  and  says  that  I  talk  the  maddest  non- 
sense in  my  sleep ;  and  the  other  night  she  plainly  heard  me 
calling  out — "  Dulcinea  is  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world,  and 
I  the  unhappiest  knight  on  earth ;  but  it  is  not  meet  that  my 
weakness  should  disown  this  truth.  Strike  with  your  lance, 
Sir  Knight !  " 

It  is  now  eight  years  since  I  wrote  the  foregoing  lines  ^  for 

2  [Heine  only  quotes  the  first  part  of  the    passage    from    the    *'  Reisebilder," 
Wbich  has  here  been  given  in  full.] 


288  HEINE 

the  fourth  part  of  the  "  Reisebilder,"  in  which  I  described  the 
impression  which  the  reading  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  had  made 
on  my  mind  many  years  ago.  Good  Heavens!  how  swiftly 
time  flies!  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  that, 
in  the  Avenue  of  Sighs,  in  the  court-garden  at  Diisseldorf,  I 
finished  reading  the  book,  and  my  heart  is  still  moved  with 
admiration  for  the  deeds  and  sufferings  of  the  noble  knight. 
Has  my  heart  remained  constant  in  this  ever  since,  or  has  it, 
after  passing  through  a  wonderful  cycle,  returned  to  the  emo- 
tions of  childhood  ?  The  latter  may  well  be  the  case,  for  I  re- 
member that  during  each  lustrum  of  my  life  "  Don  Quixote  " 
has  made  a  different  impression  upon  me.  When  I  was  blos- 
soming into  adolescence,  and  with  inexperienced  hands  sought 
to  pluck  the  roses  of  life,  climbed  the  loftiest  peaks  in  order 
to  be  nearer  to  the  sun,  and  at  night  dreamed  of  naught  else 
but  eagles  and  chaste  maidens,  then  "  Don  Quixote  "  was  to 
me  a  very  unsatisfactory  book,  and  if  it  chanced  to  fall  in 
my  way  I  involuntarily  shoved  it  aside.  At  a  later  period,  when 
I  had  ripened  into  manhood,  I  became  to  a  certain  degree  rec- 
onciled to  Dulcinea's  luckless  champion,  and  I  began  to  laugh 
at  him.  The  fellow  is  a  fool,  said  I.  And  yet,  strange  to  say, 
the  shadowy  forms  of  the  lean  knight  and  his  fat  squire  have 
ever  followed  me  in  all  the  journeyings  of  my  life,  particuarly 
when  I  came  to  any  critical  turning-point.  Thus  I  recollect 
that  while  making  the  journey  to  France,  one  morning  in  the 
post-chaise  I  awakened  from  a  half-feverish  slumber,  and  saw 
in  the  early  morning  mist  two  well-known  figures  riding  by 
my  side.  The  one  on  my  right  was  Don  Quixote  de  la  Man- 
cha,  mounted  on  his  lean,  abstract  Rosinante,  the  other  on  my 
left  was  Sancho  Panza,  on  his  substantial,  positive  gray  donkey. 
We  had  just  reached  the  French  frontier.  The  noble  Manchean  . 
bowed  his  head  reverently  before  the  tri-colored  flag,  which 
fluttered  towards  us  from  the  high  post  that  marks  the  bound- 
ary line.  Our  good  Sancho  saluted  with  a  somewhat  less  cor- 
dial nod  the  first  French  gendarmes  whom  we  saw  approaching 
near  by.  At  last  my  two  friends  pushed  on  ahead,  and  I  lost 
sight  of  them,  only  now  and  then  I  caught  the  sound  of  Rosi- 
nante's  spirited  neighing,  and  the  donkey's  responsive  bray. 

At  that  time  I  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  ridiculousness  of 
Don  Quixotism  consisted  in  the  fact  that  the  noble  knight 


DON   QUIXOTE  289 

endeavored  to  recall  a  long-perished  past  back  to  life,  and  his 
poor  limbs  and  back  came  into  painful  contact  with  the  harsh 
reaHties  of  the  present.  Alas !  I  have  since  learned  that  it  is 
an  equally  ungrateful  folly  to  endeavor  to  bring  the  future 
prematurely  into  the  present,  and  that  for  such  an  assault  upon 
the  weighty  interests  of  the  day,  one  possesses  but  a  very  sorry 
steed,  a  brittle  armor,  and  an  equally  frail  body  1  And  the  wise 
man  dubiously  shakes  his  sage  head  at  the  one,  as  well  as  at 
the  other,  of  these  Quixotisms.  But  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  is 
still  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world ;  although  I  lie 
stretched  upon  the  earth,  helpless  and  miserable,  I  will  never 
take  back  that  assertion,  I  cannot  do  otherwise — on  with  your 
lances,  ye  Knights  of  the  Silver  Moon,  ye  disguised  barbers ! 

What  leading  idea  guided  Cervantes  when  he  wrote  his  great 
book?  Was  his  purpose  merely  the  destruction  of  the  ro- 
mances of  knight-errantry,  the  reading  of  which  at  that  time 
was  so  much  the  rage  in  Spain  that  both  clerical  and  secular 
ordinances  against  them  were  powerless?  Or  did  he  seek  to 
hold  up  to  ridicule  all  manifestations  of  human  enthusiasm  in 
general,  military  heroism  in  particular?  Ostensibly  he  aimed 
only  to  satirize  the  romances  above  referred  to,  and  through 
the  exposition  of  their  absurdities  deliver  them  over  to  univer- 
sal derision,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  them.  In  this  he  succeeded 
most  brilliantly ;  for  that  which  neither  the  exhortations  from 
the  pulpit,  nor  the  threats  of  the  authorities  could  effect,  that 
a  poor  writer  accomplished  with  his  pen.  He  destroyed  the 
romances  of  chivalry  so  effectually  that  soon  after  the  appear- 
ance of  "  Don  Quixote  "  the  taste  for  that  class  of  literature 
wholly  died  out  in  Spain,  and  no  more  of  that  order  were 
printed.  But  the  pen  of  a  man  oi  genius  is  always  greater  than 
he  himself ;  it  extends  far  beyond  his  temporary  purpose,  and 
without  being  himself  clearly  conscious  of  it,  Cervantes  wrote 
the  greatest  satire  against  human  enthusiasm.  He  had  not 
the  least  presentiment  of  this,  for  he  himself  was  a  hero,  who 
had  spent  the  greater  portion  of  his  life  in  chivalrous  conflicts, 
and  who  in  his  old  age  was  wont  to  rejoice  that  he  had  partici- 
pated in  the  battle  of  Lepanto,  although  he  paid  for  this  glory 
with  the  loss  of  his  left  hand. 

The  biographers  can  tell  us  but  little  concerning  the  person 
or  private  life  of  the  poet  who  wrote  "  Don  Quixote."    We  do 


«90  HEINE 

not  lose  much  by  the  omission  of  such  details,  which  are  gen- 
erally picked  up  from  the  female  gossips  of  the  neighborhood. 
They  see  only  the  outer  shell ;  but  we  see  the  man,  his  true, 
sincere,  unslandered  self. 

He  was  a  handsome,  powerful  man,  Don  Miguel  Cervantes 
de  Saavedra.  He  had  a  high  forehead,  and  a  large  heart.  His 
eyes  possessed  a  wonderful  magic;  just  as  there  are  people 
who  can  look  into  the  earth,  and  see  the  hidden  treasures  and 
the  dead  that  lie  buried  there,  so  the  eye  of  the  great  poet  could 
penetrate  the  breasts  of  men,  and  see  distinctly  all  what  was  con- 
cealed there.  To  the  good  his  look  was  as  a  ray  of  sunlight 
gladdening  and  illuminating  the  heart ;  to  the  bad  his  glance 
was  a  sword,  sharply  piercing  their  souls.  His  searching  eyes 
penetrated  to  the  very  soul  of  a  person,  and  questioned  it, 
and  if  it  refused  to  answer,  he  put  it  to  the  torture,  and  the  soul 
lay  stretched  bleeding  on  the  rack,  while  perhaps  the  body  as- 
sumed an  air  of  condenscending  superiority.  Is  it  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  many  formed  a  dislike  for  him,  and  gave  him  but 
scant  assistance  in  his  journey  through  life  ?  He  never  achieved 
rank  or  position,  and  from  all  his  toilsome  pilgrimages  he 
brought  back  no  pearls,  but  only  empty  shells.  It  is  said  that 
he  could  not  appreciate  the  value  of  money,  but  I  assure  you 
he  fully  appreciated  its  worth  when  he  had  no  more.  But  he 
never  prized  it  as  highly  as  he  did  his  honor.  He  had  debts, 
and  in  one  of  his  writings,  in  which  Apollo  is  supposed  to  grant 
to  the  poets  a  charter  of  privileges,  the  first  paragraph  de- 
clares :  When  a  poet  says  he  has  no  money,  his  simple  assur- 
ance shall  suffice,  and  no  oath  shall  be  required  of  him.  He 
loved  music,  flowers,  and  women,  but  in  his  love  for  the  latter 
he  sometimes  fared  very  badly,  particularly  in  his  younger 
days.  Did  the  consciousness  of  future  greatness  console  him, 
when  pert  young  roses  stung  him  with  their  thorns?  Once  on 
a  bright  summer  afternoon,  while  yet  a  young  gallant,  he 
walked  along  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  in  company  with  a  pretty 
girl  of  sweet  sixteen,  who  continually  mocked  at  his  tender 
speeches.  The  sun  had  not  yet  set,  it  still  glowed  with  all  its 
golden  splendor,  but  hij:^h  up  in  the  heavens  was  the  moon, 
pale  and  insignificant,  like  a  little  white  cloud.  "  Secst  thou," 
said  the  young  poet  to  his  sweetheart,  "  scest  thou  yonder 
small  pale  disc?     The  river  by  our  side  in  which  it  mirrors  it- 


DON   QUIXOTE  29X 

self  seems  to  receive  its  pitiful  reHex  on  its  proud  bosom  mere- 
ly out  of  compassion,  and  tiie  curling  billows  at  times  cast 
it  disdainfully  aside,  towards  the  shore.  But  wait  until  day 
fades  into  twilight ;  as  soon  as  darkness  descends,  yonder  pale 
orb  will  grow  brighter  and  brighter,  and  will  flood  the  whole 
stream  with  its  silvery  light,  and  the  haughty  billows  that  be- 
fore were  so  scornful  will  then  tremble  with  ecstasy  at  sight  of 
the  lovely  moon,  and  roll  rapturously  towards  it." 

The  history  of  poets  must  be  sought  for  in  their  works,  for 
there  are  to  be  found  their  most  confidential  confessions.  In 
all  his  writings,  in  his  dramas  even  more  than  in  "  Don  Qui- 
xote," we  see,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  that  Cervantes  had 
long  been  a  soldier.  In  fact,  the  Roman  proverb,  "  Living 
means  fighting,"  finds  a  double  application  in  his  case.  He 
took  part  as  a  common  soldier  in  most  of  those  fierce  games 
of  war  which  King  Philip  II  carried  on  in  all  countries  for  the 
honor  of  God  and  his  own  pleasure.  The  circumstance  that 
Cervantes  devoted  his  whole  youth  to  the  service  of  the  great- 
est champion  of  Catholicism,  and  that  he  fought  to  advance 
Catholic  interests,  warrants  the  assumption  that  he  had  those 
interests  at  heart,  and  hence  refutes  the  widely  spread  opinion 
that  only  the  fear  of  the  Inquisition  withheld  him  from  discuss- 
ing in  "  Don  Quixote  "  the  great  Protestant  questions  of  the 
time.  No,  Cervantes  was  a  faithful  son  of  the  Roman  Church, 
and  he  not  only  bled  physically  in  knightly  combats  for  her 
blessed  banner,  but  his  whole  soul  suffered  a  most  painful 
martyrdom  during  his  many  years  of  captivity  among  the  un- 
believers. 

We  are  indebted  to  accident  for  most  of  the  details  of  Cer- 
vantes's  doings  while  in  Algiers,  and  here  we  recognize  in  the 
great  poet  an  equally  great  hero.  The  history  of  his  captivity 
gives  a  most  emphatic  contradiction  to  the  melodious  lie  of 
that  polished  man  of  the  world,  who  made  Augustus  and  the 
German  pedants  believe  that  he  was  a  poet,  and  that  poets  are 
cowards.  No,  the  true  poet  is  also  a  true  hero,  and  in  his 
breast  dwells  that  god-like  patience,  which,  as  the  Spaniards 
say,  is  a  second  fount  of  courage.  There  is  no  more  elevating 
spectacle  than  that  of  the  noble  Castilian  who  serves  the  Dey 
of  Algiers  as  a  slave,  constantly  meditating  an  escape,  with  un- 
flagging energy  preparing  his  bold  plans,  composedly  facing 


^92  HEINE 

all  dangers,  and  when  the  enterprise  miscarries,  is  ready  ?g 
submit  to  torture  and  death  rather  than  betray  his  accom- 
pHces.  The  bloodthirsty  master  of  his  body  becomes  dis- 
armed by  such  grand  magnanimity  and  virtue.  The  ti^er 
spares  the  fettered  lion,  and  trembles  before  the  terrible  "  One- 
Arm,"  whom  with  but  a  single  word  he  could  despatch  to 
his  death.  Cervantes  is  known  in  all  Algiers  as  "  One- Arm,** 
and  the  Dey  confesses  that  only  when  he  knows  that  the 
one-armed  Spaniard  is  in  safe-keeping  can  he  sleep  soundly 
at  night,  assured  of  the  safety  of  his  city,  his  army,  and  his 
slaves. 

I  have  referred  to  the  fact  that  Cervantes  was  always  a  com- 
mon soldier,  but  even  in  so  subordinate  a  position  he  succeeded 
in  distinguishing  himself  to  such  a  degree  as  to  attract  the 
notice  of  the  great  general,  Don  John  of  Austria,  and  on  his 
return  from  Italy  to  Spain  he  was  furnished  with  the  most  com- 
plimentary letters  of  recommendation  to  the  King,  in  which 
his  advancement  was  most  emphatically  urged.  When  the 
Algerine  corsairs,  who  captured  him  on  the  Mediterranean 
Sea,  beheld  these  letters,  they  took  him  to  be  a  person  of  the 
highest  rank  and  importance,  and  hence  demanded  so  large  a 
ransom  that  notwithstanding  all  their  efforts  and  sacrifices  his 
family  were  not  able  to  purchase  his  freedom,  and  the  unfortu- 
nate poet's  captivity  was  thereby  prolonged  and  embittered. 
Thus  the  recognition  of  his  merits  became  an  additional  source 
of  misfortune,  and  thus  to  the  very  end  of  his  days  was  he 
mocked  by  that  cruel  dame,  the  goddess  Fortuna,  who  never 
forgives  genius  for  having  achieved  fame  and  honor  without 
her  assistance. 

But  are  the  misfortunes  of  a  man  of  genius  always  the  work 
.^^   of  blind  chance,  or  do  they  necessarily  follow  from  his  inner 
*''    nature  and  environment?    Does  his  soul  enter  into  strife  with 
the  world  of  reality,  or  do  the  coarse  realities  begin  the  un- 
equal conflict  with  his  noble  soul? 

Society  is  a  republic.  When  an  individual  strives  to  rise, 
the  collective  masses  press  him  back  through  ridicule  and 
abuse.  No  one  shall  be  wiser  or  better  than  the  rest.  But 
against  him,  who  by  the  invincible  power  of  genius  towers 
above  the  vulgar  masses,  society  launches  its  ostracism,  and 
persecutes  him  so  mercilessly  with  scoffing  and  slander,  that 


DON   QUIXOTE  »9$ 

he  is  finally  compelled  to  withdraw  into  the  solitude  of  his  own 
thoughts. 

Verily,  society  is  republican  in  its  very  essence.  Every 
sovereignty,  intellectual  as  well  as  material,  is  hated  by  it.  The 
latter  oftener  gives  aid  to  the  former  than  is  generally  im- 
agined. We  ourselves  came  to  this  conclusion  soon  after  the 
revolution  of  July,  when  the  spirit  of  republicanism  manifested 
itself  in  all  social  relations.  Our  republicans  hated  the  laurels 
of  a  great  poet  even  as  they  hated  the  purple  of  a  great  king. 
They  sought  to  level  the  intellectual  inequalities  of  mankind, 
and  inasmuch  as  they  regarded  all  ideas  that  had  been  pro- 
duced on  the  soil  of  the  State  as  general  property,  nothing 
remained  to  be  done  but  to  decree  an  equality  of  style  also. 
In  sooth,  a  good  style  was  decried  as  something  aristocratic, 
and  we  heard  manifold  assertions :  "  A  true  democrat  must 
write  in  the  style  of  the  people — sincere,  natural,  crude."  Most 
of  the  party  of  action  succeeded  easily  in  doing  this,  but  not 
everyone  possesses  the  gift  of  writing  badly,  especially  if  one 
has  previously  formed  the  habit  of  writing  well,  and  then  it 
was  at  once  said,  "  That  is  an  aristocrat,  a  lover  of  style,  a  friend 
of  art,  an  enemy  of  the  people."  They  were  surely  honest  in 
their  views,  like  Saint  Hieronymus,  who  considered  his  good 
style  a  sin,  and  gave  himself  sound  scourgings  for  it. 

Just  as  little  as  we  find  anti-Catholic,  so  also  do  we  fail 
to  discover  anti-absolutist  strains  in  "  Don  Quixote."  The 
critics  who  think  that  they  scent  such  sentiments  therein  are 
clearly  in  error.  Cervantes  was  the  son  of  a  school  which 
went  so  far  as  to  poetically  idealize  the  idea  of  unquestioning 
obedience  to  the  sovereign.  And  that  sovereign  was  the  King 
of  Spain  at  a  time  when  its  majesty  dazzled  the  whole  world. 
The  common  soldier  felt  himself  a  ray  in  that  halo  of  glory, 
and  willingly  sacrificed  his  individual  freedom  to  gratify  the 
national  pride  of  the  Castilian. 

The  political  grandeur  of  Spain  at  that  time  contributed  not 
a  little  to  exalt  and  enlarge  tLe  hearts  of  her  poets.  In  the 
mind  of  a  Spanish  poet,  as  in  the  realm  of  Charles  V,  the  sun 
never  set.  The  fierce  wars  against  the  Moors  were  ended, 
and  as  after  a  storm  the  flowers  are  most  fragrant,  so  poesy 
ever  blooms  most  grandly  after  a  civil  war.  We  witness  the 
same  phenomenon  in  England  at  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  and 


294  HEINE 

at  the  same  time  as  in  Spain  there  arose  a  galaxy  of  poets, 
which  invites  the  most  remarkable  parallelisms.  There  we  see 
Shakespeare,  here  Cervantes,  as  the  flower  of  the  school. 

Like  the  Spanish  poets  under  the  three  Philips,  so  also  the 
EngHsh  poets  under  Elizabeth  present  a  certain  family  like- 
ness, and  neither  Shakespeare  nor  Cervantes  has  claim  to 
originality  in  our  sense  of  the  word.  They  by  no  means  differ 
from  their  contemporaries  through  peculiar  modes  of  thought 
or  feeling,  or  by  an  especial  manner  of  portrayal,  but  only 
through  greater  depth,  fervor,  tenderness,  and  power.  Their 
creations  are  more  infused  and  penetrated  with  the  divine 
spark  of  poetry. 

But  both  poets  were  not  only  the  flowers  of  their  time,  but 
they  were  also  the  germs  of  the  future.  As  Shakespeare,  by 
the  influence  of  his  works,  particularly  on  Germany  and  the 
France  of  to-day,  is  to  be  regarded  as  the  creator  of  the  later 
dramatic  art,  so  must  we  honor  in  Cervantes  the  author  of  the 
modern  novel.  I  shall  allow  myself  a  few  passing  observa- 
tions on  the  subject. 

The  older  novels,  the  so-called  romances  of  chivalry,  sprang 
from  the  poetry  of  the  Middle  Ages.  They  were  at  first  prose 
versions  of  those  epic  poems  whose  heroes  are  derived  from 
the  mythical  traditions  of  Charlemagne  and  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  subject  was  always  knightly  adventures.  It  was  the  ro- 
mance of  the  nobility,  and  the  personages  that  figured  therein 
were  either  fabulous,  fantastic  beings,  or  knights  with  golden 
spurs;  nowhere  an  allusion  to  the  people.  These  romances 
of  knighthood,  which  degenerated  into  the  most  ridiculous 
absurdities,  Cervantes  overthrew  by  his  "  Don  Quixote." 
But  while  by  his  satire  he  destroyed  the  earlier  romances,  he 
also  furnished  a  model  for  a  new  school  of  fiction,  which  we 
call  tlie  modern  novel.  Such  is  always  the  wont  of  great  poets ; 
while  they  tear  down  the  old,  they  at  the  same  time  build  up 
the  new ;  they  never  destroy  without  replacing.  Cervantes 
created  the  modern  novel  by  introducing  into  his  romances  of 
knighthood  a  faithful  description  of  the  lower  classes,  by  inter- 
mingling with  it  phases  of  folk-life.  This  partiality  for  de- 
scribing the  doings  of  the  common  rabble,  of  the  vilest  tatter- 
demalions, is  not  only  found  in  Cervantes,  but  in  all  his  literary 
contemporaries,  and  among  the  Spanish  painters  as  well  as 


DON   QUIXOTE  295 

among  the  poets  of  that  period.  A  Murillo,  who  stole  heaven's 
loveliest  tints  with  which  to  paint  his  beautiful  Madonnas, 
painted  with  the  same  love  the  filthiest  creatures  of  this  earth. 
It  was  perhaps  the  enthusiasm  for  art  itself  that  made  these 
noble  Spaniards  find  as  much  pleasure  in  the  faithful  portrayal 
of  a  beggar  lad  scratching  his  head  as  in  the  representation 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Or,  perhaps,  it  was  the  charm  of 
contrast  that  led  noblemen  of  the  highest  rank,  a  dapper  cour- 
tier Uke  Quevedo,  or  a  powerful  minister  like  Mendoza,  to  fill 
their  romances  with  ragged  beggars  and  vagabonds.  They 
perhaps  sought  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  their  lofty  rank  by 
putting  themselves  in  imagination  into  a  quite  different  sphere 
of  life ;  as  we  find  a  similar  tendency  among  some  of  our  Ger- 
man authors,  whose  novels  contain  naught  else  but  descrip- 
tions of  the  nobility,  and  who  always  make  their  heroes  counts 
and  barons.  We  do  not  find  in  Cervantes  this  one-sided  ten- 
dency to  portray  the  vulgar  only ;  he  intermingles  the  ideal 
and  the  common ;  one  serves  as  light  or  as  shade  to  the  other, 
and  the  aristocratic  element  is  as  prominent  in  it  as  the  popu- 
lar. But  this  noble,  chivalrous,  aristocratic  element  disappears 
entirely  from  the  novels  of  the  English,  who  were  the  first  to 
imitate  Cervantes,  and  to  this  day  always  keep  him  in  view  as 
a  model.  These  English  novelists  since  Richardson's  reign 
are  prosaic  natures ;  to  the  prudish  spirit  of  their  time  even 
pithy  descriptions  of  the  life  of  the  common  people  are  repug- 
nant, and  we  see  on  yonder  side  of  the  Channel  those  bourgeois 
novels  arise,  wherein  the  petty,  humdrum  life  of  the  middle 
classes  is  depicted.  The  public  was  surfeited  with  this  de- 
plorable class  of  literature  until  recently,  when  appeared  the 
great  Scot,  who  effected  a  revolution,  or  rather  a  restoration, 
in  novel-writing.  As  Cervantes  introduced  the  democratic  ele- 
ment into  romance,  at  a  time  when  one-sided  knight-errantry 
ruled  supreme,  so  Walter  Scott  restored  the  aristocratic  ele- 
ment to  romance  when  it  had  wholly  disappeared,  and  only  a 
prosaic  bourgeoisie  was  to  be  found  there.  By  an  opposite 
course  Walter  Scott  again  restored  to  romance  that  beautiful 
symmetry  which  we  admire  in  Cervantes's  "  Don  Quixote." 

I  believe  that  the  merits  of  England's  second  great  poet  have 
never  in  this  respect  been  recognized.  His  Tory  proclivities, 
his  partiality  for  the  past,  were  wholesome  for  literature,  and 


290  HEINE 

for  those  masterpieces  of  his  genius  that  everywhere  found 
favor  and  imitators,  and  which  drove  into  the  darkest  corners 
of  the  circulating  Hbraries  those  ashen-gray,  ghostly  remains 
of  the  bourgeoisie  romances.  It  is  an  error  not  to  recognize 
Walter  Scott  as  the  founder  of  the  so-called  historical  romance, 
and  to  endeavor  to  trace  the  latter  to  German  initative.  This 
error  arises  from  the  failure  to  perceive  that  the  characteristic 
feature  of  the  historical  romance  consists  just  in  the  harmony 
between  the  aristocratic  and  democratic  elements,  and  that 
Walter  Scott  through  the  reintroduction  of  the  aristocratic 
element,  most  beautifully  restored  that  harmony  which  had 
been  overthrown  during  the  absolutism  of  the  democratic  ele- 
ment, whereas  our  German  romanticists  eliminated  the  demo- 
cratic element  entirely  from  their  novels,  and  returned  again 
to  the  ruts  of  those  crazy  romances  of  knight-errantry  that 
flourished  before  Cervantes.  Our  De  la  Motte-Fouque  is  only 
a  straggler  from  the  ranks  of  those  poets  who  gave  to  the 
world  "  Amadis  de  Gaul,"  and  similar  extravagant  absurdities. 
I  admire  not  only  the  talent,  but  also  the  courage  of  the  noble 
baron  who,  two  centuries  after  the  appearance  of  "  Don  Qui- 
xote," has  written  his  romances  of  chivalry.  It  was  a  peculiar 
period  in  Germany  when  the  latter  appeared  and  found  favor 
with  the  public.  What  was  the  significance  in  literature  of 
that  partiality  for  knight-errantry,  and  for  those  pictures  of 
the  old  feudal  times?  I  believe  that  the  German  people  de- 
sired to  bid  an  eternal  farewell  to  the  Middle  Ages,  but  moved 
with  emotion  as  we  Germans  are  so  apt  to  be,  we  took  our 
leave  with  a  kiss.  For  the  last  time  we  pressed  our  lips  to  the 
old  tombstone.  True,  some  of  us  behaved  in  a  very  silly  man- 
ner on  that  occasion.  Ludwig  Tieck,  the  smallest  boy  in 
school,  dug  the  dead  ancestors  out  of  their  grave,  rocked  the 
coffin  as  if  it  were  a  cradle,  and  in  childish,  lisping  accents  sang, 
"  Sleep,  little  grandsire,  sleep." 

I  have  called  Walter  Scott  England's  second  great  poet,  and 
his  novels  masterpieces ;  but  it  is  to  his  genius  only  that  I 
would  give  the  highest  praise.  His  novels  I  can  by  no  means 
place  on  an  equality  with  the  great  romance  of  Cervantes.  The 
latter  surpasses  him  in  epic  spirit.  Cervantes  was,  as  I  have 
already  stated,  a  Catholic  poet,  and  it  is  perhaps  to  this  cir- 
cumstance that  he  is  indebted  for  that  grand  epic  composure 


DON   QUIXOTE  297 

of  soul,  which,  like  a  crystalline  firmament,  overarches  those 
picturesque  and  poetical  creations ;   nowhere  is  there  a  rift  of 
scepticism.    Added  to  this  is  the  calm  dignity  which  is  the  na- 
tional characteristic  of  the  Spaniard.     But  Walter  Scott  be- 
longs to  a  Church  which  subjects  even  divine  matters  to  a  sharp 
examination ;    as  an  advocate  and  as  a  Scotchman  he  is  ac- 
^customed  to  action  and  to  debate,  and  we  find  the  dramatic 
'element  most  prominent  in  his  novels,  as  well  as  in  his  life  and 
'  his  temperament.    Hence  his  works  can  never  be  regarded  as 
the  pure  model  of  that  style  of  fiction  which  we  denominate 
the  romance.     To  the  Spaniards  is  due  the  honor  of  having 
produced  the  best  novel,  as  England  is  entitled  to  the  credit 
of  having  achieved  the  highest  rank  in  the  drama. 

And  the  Germans,  what  palm  remains  for  them?  Well, 
then,  we  are  the  best  lyric  poets  on  earth.  No  people  possesses 
such  beautiful  songs  as  the  Germans.  At  present  the  nations 
are  too  much  occupied  with  political  affairs,  but  when  these 
are  once  laid  aside,  then  let  us  Germans,  English,  Spaniards, 
French,  Italians,  all  go  out  into  the  green  forests  and  chant 
our  lays,  and  the  nightingale  shall  be  umpire.  I  am  convinced 
that  in  this  tournament  of  minstrelsy  the  songs  of  Wolfgang 
Goethe  will  win  the  prize. 

Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  and  Goethe  form  the  triumvirate 
of  poets,  who,  in  the  three  great  divisions  of  poetry,  epic,  dra- 
matic, and  lyric,  have  achieved  the  greatest  success.  The 
writer  of  these  pages  is  perhaps  peculiarly  fitted  to  sound  the 
praises  of  our  great  countryman  as  the  most  perfect  of  lyric 
poets.  Goethe  stands  midway  between  the  two  classes  of  song- 
writers, between  those  two  schools,  of  which  one,  alas !  is 
known  by  my  own  name,  the  other  as  the  Suabian  school. 
Both  have  their  merits;  they  have  indirectly  promoted  the 
welfare  of  German  poetry.  The  first  effected  a  wholesome  re- 
action against  the  one-sided  idealism  of  German  poetry,  it  led 
the  intellect  back  to  stern  realities,  and  uprooted  that  senti- 
mental Petrarchism  that  has  always  seemed  to  us  as  a  Quixot- 
ism in  verse.  The  Suabian  school  also  contributed  indirectly 
to  the  weal  of  German  poetry.  If  in  northern  Germany  strong 
and  healthy  poetical  productions  came  to  light,  thanks  are 
perhaps  due  to  the  Suabian  school,  which  attracted  to  itself 
all  the  sickly  chlorotic,  mawkishly-pious,  clumsy  votaries  of 


298  HEINE 

the  German  muse.    Stuttgart  was  the  fontanel,  as  it  were,  for 
the  German  muse. 

While  I  ascribe  the  highest  achievements  in  drama,  in  ro- 
mance, and  in  lyric  poetry  to  this  great  triumvirate,  far  be  it 
from  me  to  depreciate  the  poetical  merits  of  other  great  poets. 
Nothing  is  more  foolish  than  the  query,  "  Which  poet  is 
greater  than  the  other  ?  "  Flame  is  flame,  and  its  weight  can- 
not be  determined  in  pounds  and  ounces.  Only  a  narrow  shop- 
keeper mind  will  attempt  to  weigh  genius  in  its  miserable 
cheese  scales.  Not  only  the  ancients,  but  some  of  the  moderns, 
have  written  works  in  which  the  fire  of  poetry  burns  with  a 
splendor  equal  to  that  of  the  masterpieces  of  Shakespeare, 
Cervantes,  and  Goethe.  Nevertheless,  these  names  hold  to- 
gether as  if  through  some  secret  bond.  A  kindred  spirit  shines 
forth  from  their  creations,  an  immortal  tenderness  exhales 
from  them  like  the  breath  of  God,  the  modesty  of  nature  blooms 
in  them.  Goethe  not  only  constantly  reminds  one  of  Shake- 
speare, but  also  of  Cervantes,  and  he  resembles  the  latter  even 
in  the  details  of  style,  and  in  that  charming  prose  diction 
which  is  tinged  with  a  vein  of  the  sweetest  and  most  harm- 
less irony.  Cervantes  and  Goethe  resemble  each  other  even 
in  their  faults,  in  diffusiveness  of  style,  in  those  long  sen- 
tences that  we  occasionally  find  in  their  writings,  and  which 
may  be  compared  to  a  procession  of  royal  equipages.  Not  in- 
frequently but  a  single  thought  sits  in  one  of  those  long,  wide- 
spreading  sentences  that  rolls  majestically  along  like  a  great, 
gilded  court-chariot,  drawn  by  six  plumed  steeds.  But  that 
single  idea  is  always  something  exalted,  perhaps  even  royal. 

My  remarks  concerning  the  genius  of  Cervantes  and  the  in- 
fluence of  his  book  have  been  necessarily  scant.  Concerning 
the  true  value  of  his  romance  from  an  artistic  standpoint,  I 
must  express  myself  still  more  briefly,  as  otherwise  questions 
might  arise  which  would  lead  to  wide  digressions  into  the 
sphere  of  aesthetics.  I  may  only  call  attention  in  a  general 
way  to  the  form  of  the  romance,  and  to  the  two  figures  that 
constitute  its  central  point.  The  form  is  that  of  a  description 
of  travels  which  has  ever  been  the  most  natural  for  this  class 
of  writings.  I  am  reminded  of  "  The  Golden  Ass  "  of  Apu- 
leius,  the  first  romance  of  antiquity.  Later  poets  sought  to 
relieve  the  monotony  of  this  form  through  what  we  to-day  call 


DON   QUIXOTE  299 

fabliaux.  But  on  account  of  poverty  of  invention  the  majority 
of  romance  writers  have  borrowed  each  other's  fables ;  at  least, 
part  have  always  used  the  same  tales,  making  but  slight  varia- 
tions. Hence,  through  the  resulting  sameness  of  characters, 
situations,  and  complications,  the  public  became  at  last  some- 
what wearied  of  romance-reading.  To  escape  from  the  tedi- 
ousness  of  hackneyed  tales  and  fables,  they  sought  refuge  in 
the  ancient,  original  form  of  narratives  of  travels.  But  this 
form  will  again  be  wholly  supplanted  just  as  soon  as  some 
creative  genius  shall  arise  with  a  new  and  original  style  of 
romance.  In  literature,  as  well  as  in  politics,  all  things  are 
subject  to  the  law  of  action  and  reaction. 

As  regards  the  two  figures  that  are  called  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  Panza,  that  so  constantly  burlesque,  and  yet  so  won- 
derfully complement  each  other,  so  that  together  they  form 
the  one  true  hero  of  the  romance — these  two  figures  give  evi- 
dence equally  of  the  poet's  artistic  taste  and  of  his  intellectual 
profundity.  If  other  authors,  in  whose  romances  the  hero 
journeys  solitary  and  alone  through  the  world,  are  compelled 
to  have  recourse  to  monologues,  letters,  or  diaries  in  order  to 
communicate  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  their  heroes,  Cer- 
vantes can  always  let  a  natural  dialogue  arise ;  and,  inasmuch 
as  the  one  figure  always  parodies  the  other,  the  author's  pur- 
pose is  the  more  clearly  shown.  Manifold  have  been  the  imi- 
tations of  this  double  figure  which  lends  to  the  romance  of 
Cervantes  such  an  artistic  naturalness,  and  out  of  which,  as 
from  a  single  seed,  has  grown  the  whole  novel,  with  all  its 
wild  foliage,  its  fragrant  blossoms,  its  glowing  fruits,  its  apes 
and  marvellous  birds  that  cluster  amid  its  branches,  resembling 
one  of  those  giant  trees  of  India. 

But  it  would  be  unjust  to  charge  all  this  to  a  servile  imita- 
tion ;  on  the  surface,  as  it  were,  lay  the  introduction  of  two 
such  figures  as  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza,  of  which  the 
one,  the  poetical  nature,  seeks  adventures,  and  the  other,  half 
out  of  affection,  half  out  of  selfish  motives,  follows  through 
sunshine  and  rain,  as  we  often  meet  them  in  real  life.  In  order 
to  recognize  this  couple  anywhere,  under  the  most  varied  dis- 
guises, in  art  as  well  as  in  life,  one  must  keep  in  view  only  the 
essential,  the  spiritual  characteristics,  not  the  incidental  or  ex- 
ternal.    I  could  offer  innumerable  instances  of  this.     Do  we 


300 


HEINE 


not  find  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  clearly  repeated  in 
Don  Juan  and  Leporello,  and  to  a  certain  degree  also  in  the 
persons  of  Lord  Byron  and  his  servant  Fletcher  ?  Do  we  not 
recognize  these  two  types  and  their  changed  relations  in  the 
figures  of  the  Knight  von  Waldsee  and  his  Caspar  Larifari,  as 
also  in  the  form  of  many  an  author  and  his  publisher?  The 
latter  clearly  discerns  his  author's  follies,  but  in  order  to  reap 
pecuniary  profit  out  of  them,  faithfully  accompanies  him  in  all 
his  ideal  vagaries.  And  Master  Publisher  Sancho,  even  if  at 
times  he  gains  only  buffets  in  the  transaction,  yet  always  re- 
mains fat,  while  the  noble  knight  grows  daily  more  and  more 
emaciated.  But  not  only  among  men,  but  also  among  women, 
have  I  often  met  the  counterparts  of  Don  Quixote  and  his 
henchman.  I  particularly  remember  a  beautiful  English  lady, 
an  impulsive,  enthusiastic  blonde,  who,  accompanied  by  her 
friend,  had  run  away  from  a  London  boarding-school,  to  roam 
the  wide  world  over  in  search  of  a  noble,  true-hearted  lover, 
such  as  she  had  dreamed  of  on  soft  moonlight  nights.  Her 
friend,  a  short,  plump  brunette,  also  hoped  through  this  op- 
portunity to  gain,  if  not  so  rare  and  high  an  ideal,  at  least  a 
husband  of  good  appearance.  Still  do  I  see  her,  with  her 
slender  figure,  and  blue,  love-longing  eyes,  standing  on  the 
beach  at  Brighton,  casting  wistful  glances  over  the  billowy 
sea  towards  the  French  coast;  meanwhile  her  companion 
cracked  hazel-nuts,  munched  the  sweet  kernels  with  relish,  and 
threw  the  shells  into  the  water. 

And  yet  neither  in  the  masterpieces  of  other  artists,  nor  in 
nature  herself,  do  we  find  these  two  types  in  their  varying  re- 
lations so  minutely  elaborated  as  in  Cervantes.  Every  trait  in 
the  character  and  appearance  of  the  one  answers  to  a  contrast- 
ing, and  yet  kindred,  trait  in  the  other.  Here  every  detail  has 
a  burlesque  signification;  yes,  even  between  Rosinante  and 
Sancho's  gray  donkey  there  exists  the  same  ironic  parallelism 
as  between  the  squire  and  the  knight,  and  the  two  beasts  are 
made  to  convey  symbolically  the  same  idea.  As  in  their  modes 
of  thought,  so  also  in  their  speech,  do  master  and  servant  re- 
veal a  most  marvellous  contrast,  and  I  cannot  here  omit  to  refer 
to  the  difficulties  with  which  the  translator  has  had  to  con- 
tend in  order  to  reproduce  in  German  the  homely  gnarled  dia- 
lect of  our  good  Sancho.     Througli  his  blunt,  frcqucnlly  vulgai? 


DON    QUIXOTE  301 

speeches,  and  his  fondness  for  proverbializing,  our  good 
Sancho  reminds  us  of  King  Solomon's  fool,  and  of  Marculfe, 
who,  also,  in  opposition  to  a  somewhat  pathetic  idealism,  ex- 
presses in  short  and  pithy  sayings  the  practical  wisdom  of 
the  common  people.  Don  Quixote,  on  the  contrary,  speaks 
the  language  of  culture,  of  the  higher  classes,  and  in  the 
solemn  gravity  of  his  well-rounded  periods,  he  fairly  repre- 
sents the  high-born  hidalgo.  At  times  his  sentences  are 
spun  out  too  broadly,  and  the  knight's  language  resembles  a 
haughty  court  dame,  attired  in  a  much  bepuffed  silken  robe, 
with  a  long  rustling  train.  But  the  graces,  disguised  as  pages, 
laughingly  carry  the  tips  of  this  train,  and  the  long  sentences 
end  with  the  most  charming  turns. 

The  character  of  Don  Quixote's  language  and  that  of  Sancho 
Panza  may  be  briefly  summarized  in  the  words :  the  former, 
when  he  speaks,  seems  always  mounted  on  his  high  horse; 
the  latter,  as  if  seated  on  his  humble  donkey. 

It  is  remarkable  that  a  book  which  is  so  rich  as  "  Don 
Quixote  "  in  picturesque  matter  has  as  yet  found  no  painter 
who  has  taken  from  it  subjects  for  a  series  of  independent  art 
works.  Is  the  spirit  of  the  book  so  volatile  and  fanciful  that 
the  variegated  colors  elude  the  artist's  skill?  I  do  not  think 
so,  for  "  Don  Quixote,"  light  and  fanciful  as  it  is,  is  still  based 
on  rude,  earthly  realities,  as  must  necessarily  be  the  case  to 
make  it  a  book  of  the  people.  Is  it,  perhaps,  because  behind 
the  figures  brought  before  us  by  the  poet,  deeper  ideas  lie 
hidden,  which  the  artist  cannot  produce  again,  so  that  he  can 
give  only  the  outward  features,  salient  though  they  be,  but  fails 
to  grasp  and  reproduce  the  deeper  meaning? 


FUNERAL    OF    NAPOLEON 


BY 


VICTOR    HUGO 


VICTOR   MARIE   HUGO 
1802— 1885 

Victor  Marie  Hugo  was  born  at  Besanqon  in  1802.  His  father  was 
a  general  of  some  note  in  the  Napoleonic  wars.  Some  years  of  the 
poet's  childhood  were  passed  in  Spain,  where  his  father  held  an  im- 
portant command,  and  some  in  Italy.  His  early  education  was  super- 
intended by  his  mother.  While  a  mere  boy  Victor  Hugo  showed  a 
precocious  talent  for  poetry.  He  began  serious  literary  work^at  the 
age  of  seventeen  by  contributions  to  the  "  Conservateur  Litteraire," 
a  literary  publication  founded  by  himself.  In  1822  "  Odes  et  poesies 
diverses "  appeared.  This  collection  was  received  with  considerable 
favor  and  secured  for  him  a  pension  from  Louis  XVIII  which  he  deemed 
sufficient  to  justify  him  to  assume  the  responsibilities  of  matrimonial 
life.  Other  volumes  of  poetry,  chiefly  lyrical,  followed  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, the  most  notable  being  "  Odes  et  ballades  "  in  1826  and  "  Les 
orientales  "  in  1829.  The  first  of  Hugo's  romances  was  "  Han  d'is- 
lande  "  in  1823,  followed  by  "  Bug-Jargal  "  three  years  later.  "  Notre 
Dame  de  Paris  "  appeared  in  1831.  During  the  next  ten  years  four 
new  volumes  of  verse  appeared  and  six  dramas,  among  the  latter 
"  Hernani,"  "  Le  roi  s'amuse,"  and  "  Ruy  Bias."  In  1841  Hugo  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Academy,  and  four  years  later  he  became  a 
peer.  In  1848  he  served  as  a  deputy  from  Paris,  his  sympathies  being 
ardently  republican.  The  empire  and  the  hostility  of  Napoleon  drove 
him  into  years  of  exile,  spent  first  at  Brussels,  then  in  Jersey,  and 
finally  in  Guernsey. 

During  this  period  appeared  the  bitter  attack  on  Napoleon  III,  en- 
titled "  Les  chatiments,"  and  another  notable  book  of  lyrics,  "  Les 
contemplations."  The  long  romance  of  "  Les  miserables  "  was  alsp 
written  at  this  time  and  published  in  1862.  Although  of  uneven  merit 
in  its  parts,  this  is  without  doubt  Victor  Hugo's  greatest  prose  work. 
In  1866  the  exquisite  tale  "  Les  travailleurs  de  la  mer "  appeared. 
With  the  fall  of  Napoleon  his  exile  came  to  an  end.  Victor  Hugo 
returned  to  France  and  was  elected  to  the  National  Assembly.  He 
resigned  his  seat,  however,  not  long  after  his  election,  and  again 
spent  some  time  in  Brussels.  On  his  return  to  France  in  1876  he  was 
elected  senator  for  life.  His  later  years  were  spent  quietly  in  Paris. 
His  eightieth  birthday  was  celebrated  all  over  the  world.  His  death 
occurred  three  years  later,  and  his  body  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  Pantheon 
with  great  pomp  and  ceremony. 

As  a  lyrical  poet  Victor  Hugo  ranks  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  all 
ages.  His  prose  writings  alone  would  entitle  him  to  rank  as  one  of  the 
beacon  lights  in  the  annals  of  the  world's  literature.  In  America  and 
England  he  is  undoubtedly  better  known  as  a  writer  of  fiction  than  of 
verse,  perhaps  because  his  prose  is  susceptible  of  adequate  translation, 
while  his  poetry,  like  most  French  poetry,  is  not.  Of  Hugo's  style  it 
is  difficult  to  speak  in  a  few  words.  As  a  vehicle  of  thought — now 
delicate,  now  profound — as  a  means  for  expressing  emotion — now  calm 
and  peaceful,  now  tempestuous — his  style  is  always  dignified  and  natural. 
Victor  Hugo  has  no  superior  in  adaptibility  and  force  of  expression.  The 
selection  given  here,  "  The  Funeral  of  Napoleon,"  is  a  characteristic 
example  of  his  prose. 


304 


FUNERAL  OF   NAPOLEON 

Notes  taken  on  the  spot,  December  75,  1840 

I  HAVE  heard  the  drums  beat  to  arms  in  the  streets  since 
half-past  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  go  out  at  eleven. 
The  streets  are  deserted,  the  shops  shut ;  no  passer-by  is 
to  be  seen,  save,  perhaps,  an  old  woman  here  and  there.  It  is 
evident  that  all  Paris  has  poured  forth  towards  one  side  of  the 
city  like  fluid  in  a  slanting  vessel.  It  is  very  cold  ;  a  bright  sun, 
slight  mists  overhead.  The  gutters  are  frozen.  As  I  reach  the 
Louis-Philippe  bridge  a  cloud  descends,  and  a  few  snow-flakes, 
driven  by  the  northerly  wind,  lash  me  in  the  face.  Passing  near 
Notre-Dame  I  notice  that  the  great  bell  does  not  ring. 

In  the  Rue  Saint-Andre-des-Arts  the  fevered  commotion  of 
the  fete  begins  to  manifest  itself.  Ay,  it  is  a  fete,  the  fete  of 
an  exiled  coffin  returning  in  triumph.  Three  men  of  the  lower 
classes,  of  those  poor  workmen  in  rags  who  are  cold  and  hun- 
gry the  whole  winter-time,  walk  in  front  of  me  rejoicing.  One 
of  them  jumps  about,  dances,  and  goes  through  a  thousand  ab- 
surd antics,  crying,  "  Vive  VEmpereiir!  "  Pretty  grisettes, 
smartly  dressed,  pass  by,  led  by  their  student  companions. 
Hired  carriages  are  making  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  In- 
valides.  In  the  Rue  du  Four  the  snow  thickens.  The  sky  be- 
comes black.  The  snow-flakes  are  interspersed  with  white 
tear-drops.  Heaven  itself  seems  to  wish  to  hang  out  signs  of 
mourning. 

The  storm,  however,  lasts  but  a  short  time.  A  pale  streak 
of  light  illumines  the  angle  of  the  Rue  de  Crenelle  and  the  Rue 
du  Bac,  and  there  the  municipal  guards  stop  the  vehicles.  I 
pass  by.  Two  great  empty  wagons  conducted  by  artillerymen 
come  from  behind  me,  and  return  to  their  quarters  at  the  end 
of  the  Rue  de  Crenelle  just  as  I  come  out  on  the  Place  des  In- 
valides.  Here  I  fear  at  first  that  all  is  over,  and  that  the  Em- 
peror has  passed  by,  so  many  are  the  passers-by  coming  towards 

^°^  N— Vol.  60 


3o5  HUGO 

me  who  appear  to  be  returning.  It  is  only  the  crowd  flowing 
back,  driven  by  a  cordon  of  municipal  guards  on  foot.  I  show 
my  ticket  for  the  first  platform  on  the  left,  and  pass  the  barrier. 

These  platforms  are  immense  wooden  structures,  covering, 
from  the  quay  to  the  dome-shaped  building,  all  the  grass-plots 
of  the  esplanade.    There  are  three  of  these  on  each  side. 

At  the  moment  of  my  arrival  the  side  of  the  platforms  on 
the  right  as  yet  hides  the  square  from  my  view.  I  hear  a  for- 
midable and  dismal  noise.  It  seems  like  innumerable  hammers 
beating  time  upon  the  boarding.  It  is  the  hundred  thousand 
spectators  crowded  upon  the  platforms,  who,  being  frozen  by 
the  northerly  wind,  are  stamping  to  keep  themselves  warm  until 
such  time  as  the  procession  shall  arrive.  I  climb  up  on  the  plat- 
form. The  spectacle  is  no  less  strange.  The  women,  nearly 
all  of  them  wearing  heavy  boots,  and  veiled  Hke  the  female  bal- 
lad-singers of  the  Pont-Neuf,  are  hidden  beneath  great  heaps  of 
furs  and  cloaks ;  the  men  display  neckerchiefs  of  extraordinary 
size. 

The  decoration  of  the  square,  good  and  bad.  Shabbiness 
surmounting  magnificence.  On  the  two  sides  of  the  avenue 
two  rows  of  figures,  heroic,  colossal,  pale  in  this  cold  sunlight, 
producing  rather  a  fine  impression.  They  appear  to  be  of  white 
marble ;  but  this  marble  is  of  plaster.  At  the  extremity  opposite 
the  building  the  statue  of  the  Emperor  in  bronze ;  this  bronze 
is  also  of  plaster.  In  each  gap  between  the  statues  a  pillar  of 
painted  cloth,  and  gilded  in  rather  bad  taste,  surmounted  by  a 
brazier,  just  now  filled  with  snow.  Behind  the  statues  the  plat- 
forms and  the  crowd ;  between  the  statues  a  straggling  file  of 
the  National  Guard  ;  above  the  platforms  masts,  on  top  of  which 
grandly  fluttered  sixty  long  tricolored  pennants. 

It  appears  that  there  has  been  no  time  to  finish  the  decoration 
of  the  i)rincipal  entrance  to  the  building.  Above  the  railings 
has  been  roughly  constructed  a  sort  of  funeral  triumphal  arch 
of  painted  cloth  and  crape,  with  which  the  wind  plays  as  with 
old  linen  clothes  hung  out  from  the  garret  of  a  hovel.  A  row 
of  poles,  plain  and  bare,  rise  above  the  cannon,  and  from  a  dis- 
tance look  like  those  small  sticks  which  little  children  plant  in 
the  sand.  Clothes  and  rags,  which  are  supposed  to  be  black 
drapery  with  silver  spangles,  flutter  and  flap  together  feebly 
between  these  poles.     At  the  end  the  dome,  with  its  flag  and 


FUNERAL  OF   NAPOLEON  307 

mourning  drapery,  sparkling  with  a  metallic  lustre,  subdued  by 
the  mist  in  a  brilliant  sky,  has  a  sombre  and  splendid  appearance. 

It  is  mid-day. 

The  cannon  at  the  building  is  fired  at  quarter-hour  intervals. 
The  crowd  stamp  their  feet.  Gendarmes  disguised  in  plain 
clothes,  but  betraying  themselves  by  their  spurs  and  the  stocks 
of  their  uniforms,  walk  hither  and  thither.  In  front  of  me  a 
ray  of  light  shows  up  vividly  a  rather  poor  statue  of  Joan  of 
Arc,  who  holds  in  her  hand  a  palm-branch,  which  she  appears 
to  use  as  a  shade,  as  though  the  sun  affected  her  eyes. 

At  a  few  steps  from  the  statue  a  fire,  at  which  a  number  of 
men  of  the  National  Guard  warm  their  feet,  is  alight  in  a  heap 
of  sand. 

From  time  to  time  military  bandsmen  invade  an  orchestra, 
raised  between  the  two  platforms  on  the  opposite  side,  perform 
a  funeral  flourish,  then  come  down  again  hastily  and  disappear 
in  the  crowd,  only  to  reappear  the  moment  after.  They  leave 
the  music  for  the  wine-shop. 

A  hawker  passes  along  the  platform  selling  dirges  at  a  half- 
penny each,  and  accounts  of  the  ceremony.  I  buy  two  of  these 
documents. 

All  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  corner  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay, 
whence  the  procession  is  to  come  out.  The  cold  adds  to  the 
feeling  of  impatience.  Black  and  white  lines  of  vapor  ascend 
here  and  there  through  the  thick  mist  of  the  Champs-Elysees, 
and  detonations  are  heard  in  the  distance. 

Of  a  sudden  the  National  Guards  hasten  to  arms.  An  orderly 
officer  crosses  the  avenue  at  a  gallop.  A  line  is  formed.  Work- 
men place  ladders  against  the  pillars  and  begin  to  light  the 
braziers.  A  salvo  of  heavy  artillery  explodes  loudly  at  the  east 
corner  of  the  Invalides ;  a  dense  yellow  smoke,  mingled  with 
golden  flashes,  fills  this  whole  corner.  From  the  position  in 
which  I  am  placed  the  firing  of  the  guns  can  be  seen.  They 
are  two  fine  old  engraved  cannon  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
which  one  hears  from  the  noise  are  of  bronze.  The  procession 
approaches. 

It  is  half-past  twelve. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  esplanade,  near  the  river,  a  double  row 
of  mounted  grenadiers,  with  yellow  shoulder-belts,  solemnly 
debouch.  This  is  the  gendarmerie  of  the  Seine.    It  is  the  head 


3o8  HUGO 

of  the  procession.  At  this  moment  the  sun  does  its  duty,  and 
appears  in  its  glory.    It  is  the  month  of  Austerlitz. 

After  the  bear-skins  of  the  gcndaniierie  of  the  Seine,  the 
brass  helmets  of  the  Paris  municipal  guard,  then  the  tricolored 
pennants  of  the  lancers,  fluttering  in  the  air  in  charming  fash- 
ion.   Flourishes  of  trumpets  and  beating  of  drums. 

A  man  in  a  blue  blouse  climbs  over  the  outside  wood-work, 

at  the  risk  of  breaking  his  neck,  on  the  platform  in  front  of 

'me.     No  one  assists  him,     A  spectator  in  white  gloves  looks 

at  him  as  he  does  so,  and  does  not  hold  out  a  hand  to  him.    The 

man,  however,  reaches  his  destination. 

The  procession,  including  generals  and  marshals,  has  an  ad- 
mirable effect.  The  sun,  striking  the  cuirasses  of  the  carabi- 
neers, lights  up  the  breast  of  each  of  them  with  a  dazzling  star. 
The  three  military  schools  pass  by  with  erect  and  solemn  bear- 
ing, then  the  artillery  and  infantry,  as  though  going  into  ac- 
tion. The  ammunition  wagons  have  the  spare  wheel  at  the  rear, 
the  soldiers  carry  their  knapsacks  upon  their  backs.  A  short 
distance  off,  a  great  statue  of  Louis  XIV,  of  ample  dimensions 
and  tolerably  good  design,  gilded  by  the  sun,  seems  to  view  with 
amazement  all  this  splendor. 

The  mounted  National  Guard  appear.  Uproar  in  the  crowd. 
It  is  sufficiently  well  disciplined  notwithstanding,  but  it  is  an 
inglorious  regiment,  and  this  detracts  from  the  effect  of  a  pro- 
cession of  this  kind.  People  laugh.  I  hear  this  conversation: 
"  Just  look  at  that  fat  colonel !  How  strangely  he  holds  his 
sword !  "    "  Who  is  that  fellow?  "    "  That  is  Montalivet." 

Interminable  legions  of  the  infantry  of  the  National  Guard 
now  march  past,  with  arms  reversed,  like  the  line  regiments, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  this  gray  sky.  A  mounted  National 
Guard  who  lets  fall  his  shako,  and  so  gallops  bareheaded  for 
some  time,  although  successful  in  catching  it,  causes  much 
amusement  to  the  gallery,  that  is  to  say,  to  a  hundred  thousand 
people. 

From  time  to  time  the  procession  halts,  then  continues  on  its 
way.  The  ligliting  of  the  braziers  is  completed,  and  they  smoke 
between  the  statues  like  great  bowls  of  punch. 

Expectation  rises  higher.  Here  is  the  black  carriage  with 
silver  ornamentation  of  the  chaplain  of  the  Belle-Poule,  in  the 
inside  of  which  is  seen  a  priest  in  mourning;   then  the  g^eat 


FUNERAL  OF   NAPOLEON  3^9 

black  velvet  coach  with  mirror  panels  of  the  St.  Helena  Com- 
mission, four  horses  to  each  of  these  two  carriages. 

Suddenly  the  cannon  are  discharged  simultaneously  from 
three  different  points  on  the  horizon.  This  triple  sound  hems 
in  the  ear  in  a  sort  of  triangle,  formidable  and  superb.  Drums 
beat  a  salute  in  the  distance.  The  funeral  carriage  of  the  Em- 
peror appears.  The  sun,  obscured  until  this  moment,  reappears 
at  the  same  time.    The  effect  is  prodigious. 

In  the  distance  is  seen,  in  the  mist  and  sunlight,  against  the 
gray  and  russet  background  of  the  trees  in  the  Champs-Elysces, 
beyond  the  great  white  phantom-like  statues,  a  kind  of  golden 
mountain  slowly  moving.  All  that  can  be  distinguished  of  it 
as  yet  is  a  sort  of  luminous  glistening,  which  makes  now  stars, 
now  lightning  sparkle  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  car.  A 
mighty  roar  follows  this  apparition.  It  would  seem  as  though 
this  draws  after  it  the  acclamation  of  the  whole  city,  as  a  torch 
draws  after  it  its  smoke. 

As  it  turns  in  the  avenue  of  the  esplanade  it  remains  for  a 
few  moments  at  a  stand-still,  through  some  contingency,  before 
a  statue  which  stands  at  the  corner  of  the  avenue  and  of  the 
quay.  I  have  since  ascertained  that  this  statue  was  that  of 
Marshal  Ney. 

At  the  moment  when  the  funeral  car  appeared  it  was  half- 
past  one. 

The  procession  resumes  its  progress.  The  car  advances 
slowly.    The  shape  begins  to  display  itself. 

Here  are  the  saddle-horses  of  the  marshals  and  generals  who 
hold  the  cords  of  the  imperial  pall.  Here  are  the  eighty-six 
subaltern  legionaries  bearing  the  banners  of  the  eighty-six  de- 
partments. Nothing  prettier  to  be  conceived  than  this  square, 
above  which  flutters  a  forest  of  flags.  It  might  be  supposed  that 
a  gigantic  field  of  dahlias  is  on  the  march. 

Here  comes  a  white  horse  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
violet  pall,  accompanied  by  a  chamberlain  in  pale  blue,  em- 
broidered with  silver,  and  led  by  two  footmen,  dressed  in  green, 
with  gold  lace.  It  is  the  Emperor's  livery.  A  shudder  goes 
through  the  crowd.  It  is  Napoleon's  charger!  The  majority 
firmly  believed  it.  Had  the  horse  been  ridden  only  for  two  years 
by  the  Emperor,  he  would  be  thirty  years  old,  which  is  a  good 
age  for  a  horse. 


310  HUGO 

The  fact  is  that  this  palfrey  is  a  good  old  supernumerary 
horse,  who  has  filled  for  some  ten  years  the  office  of  charger  in 
all  the  military  burials  over  which  the  Funeral  Administration 
presides.  This  charger  of  straw  carries  on  his  back  the  gen- 
uine saddle  of  Bonaparte  at  Marengo:  a  crimson  velvet  sad- 
dle with  a  double  row  of  gold  lace,  tolerably  well  worn. 

After  the  horse  come,  in  close  and  regular  formation,  the  five 
hundred  sailors  of  the  Belle-Poule,  youthful  faces  for  the  most 
part,  dressed  for  action,  with  round  jackets,  round  varnished 
hats,  each  with  his  pistol  in  his  belt,  his  boarding  axe  in  hand, 
and  at  his  side  a  sword,  a  cutlass  with  a  large  handle  of  polished 
iron. 

The  salvoes  continue.  At  this  moment  the  story  goes  the 
round  of  the  crowd  that  the  first  discharge  of  cannon  at  the 
Invalides  has  cut  off  the  legs  of  a  municipal  guard  at  the  thighs. 
By  an  oversight  the  gun  had  not  been  unloaded.  It  is  added 
that  a  man  has  fallen  down  in  the  Place  Louis  XV  under  the 
wheels  of  the  cars,  and  has  been  crushed  to  death. 

The  car  is  now  very  near.  It  is  almost  immediately  pre- 
ceded by  the  officers  of  the  Belle-Poule,  under  the  command 
of  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  on  horseback.  The  Prince  de  Join- 
ville's  face  is  covered  with  a  beard  (fair),  which  appears  to  me 
contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  naval  forces.  He  wears  for  the 
first  time  the  grand  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Hitherto 
he  figured  upon  the  roll  of  the  Legion  only  as  a  plain  knight. 

Arriving  immediately  in  front  of  me,  a  slightly  momentary 
interruption,  I  know  not  from  what  cause,  takes  place ;  the  car 
halts.  It  remains  stationary  for  a  few  minutes  between  the 
statue  of  Joan  of  Arc  and  the  statue  of  Charles  V. 

I  can  survey  it  at  leisure.  The  effect,  as  a  whole,  is  not  want- 
ing in  grandeur.  It  is  an  enormous  mass,  gilt  all  over,  of  which 
the  tiers  rise  pyramid-like  above  the  four  great  gilt  wheels  which 
bear  it.  Under  the  violet  pall,  studded  with  bees,  which  covers 
it  from  top  to  bottom,  some  tolerably  fine  details  may  be  ob- 
served ;  the  wild-looking  eagles  of  the  base,  the  fourteen  Vic- 
tories of  the  top-piece  bearing  upon  a  golden  support  the  repre- 
sentation of  a  coffin.  The  real  coffin  is  invisible.  It  has  been 
deposited  inside  the  l)asomcnt,  which  detracts  from  the  sensa- 
tional effect.  That  is  the  grave  defect  of  this  car.  It  con- 
ceals what  one  would  wish  to  see,  what  France  has  demanded. 


FUNERAL   OF   NAPOLEON  311 

what  the  people  expect,  what  every  eye  seeks — the  coffin  of 
Napoleon. 

Upon  the  sham  sarcophagus  have  been  deposited  the  insignia 
of  the  Emperor — the  crown,  the  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  the 
robe.  In  the  gilded  orifice  which  divides  the  Victories  on  the 
summit  from  the  eagles  at  the  base  can  be  distinctly  seen,  in 
spite  of  the  gilding  already  partly  chipped  off,  the  joints  in  the 
deal  planks.  Another  defect.  This  gold  is  merely  imitation. 
Deal  and  pasteboard,  that  is  the  reality.  I  could  have  wished 
for  the  Emperor's  funeral  car  a  splendor  of  a  genuine  character. 

Nevertheless,  the  greater  part  of  this  sculptural  composition 
has  some  boldness  and  artistic  merit,  although  the  conception 
of  the  design  and  the  ornamentation  hesitate  between  the  Re- 
naissance and  the  rococo. 

Two  immense  bundles  of  flags,  conquered  from  all  the  na- 
tions of  Europe,  rise  in  glorious  splendor  from  the  front  and 
rear  of  the  car. 

The  car,  with  all  its  load,  weighs  twenty-six  thousand  pounds. 
The  coffin  alone  weighs  five  thousand  pounds. 

Nothing  more  surprising  and  more  superb  could  be  imagined 
than  the  set  of  sixteen  horses  which  draw  the  car.  They  are  ter- 
rific creatures,  adorned  with  white  plumes  flowing  down  to  the 
haunches,  and  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  a  splendid  capar- 
ison of  gold  cloth,  leaving  only  their  eyes  visible,  which  gives 
them  an  indescribable  air  of  phantom  steeds. 

Valets  in  the  imperial  livery  lead  this  imposing  cavalcade. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  worthy  and  venerable  generals  who 
hold  the  cords  of  the  pall  have  an  appearance  as  far  removed 
from  the  fantastic  as  could  well  be  conceived.  At  the  head  two 
marshals — the  Duke  de  Reggio,^  diminutive  and  blind  in  one 
eye,  to  the  right ;  to  the  left  Count  MoHtor ;  in  the  rear,  on 
the  right,  an  admiral.  Baron  Duperre,  a  stout  and  jovia!  sailor ; 

*  The  Duke  de  Reggio  is  not  really  his  general.  He  made  the  journey  from 
blind  in  one  eye.  A  few  years  ago,  as  Courbevoie  to  the  Invalides  on  foot,  on 
the  result  of  a  cold,  the  marshal  had  an        his  three  broken  legs,   as  the   Duchess 


attack  of  local  paralysis  which  affected  de  Repgio  wittily  said  to  me.  The  mar- 
the  right  cheek  and  pupil.  Since  that  shal,  in  fact,  having  suflFered  two  frac- 
time  he  cannot  open  the  right  eye.    How-        tures   of  the  right   leg  and   one   of  the 


the  right  cheek  and  pupil.  Since  that  shal,  in  fact,  having  suflFered  two  frac- 
time  he  cannot  open  the  right  eye.  How-  tures  of  the  right  leg  and  one  of  the 
ever,  throughout  this  ceremony  he  dis-        left,   has  really  had  tnree   legs   broken. 


played     wonderful     courage.       Covered  After  all,  it  is  remarkable  that,  out  of 

with  wounds,  and  seventy-five  years  of  so  many  veterans  exposed  for  so  great 

age,  he  remained  in  the  open  air,   in  a  a  length  of  time  to  tnis  severe  cold,  no 

temperature   of   fourteen   degrees,    from  mishap    should    have    happened    to    any 

eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  two  one    of    them.      Strange    to    say,    thi« 

o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in  full  uniform,  funeral  did  not  bury  anybody. 
and  without  a  cloak,  out  of  respect  for 


312  HUGO 

bn  the  left  a  lieutenant-general,  Count  Bertrand — old,  ex- 
hausted, broken-down,  a  noble  and  illustrious  figure.  All  four 
wear  the  red  ribbon. 

The  car,  let  it  be  said,  by  the  way,  was  not  intended  to  be 
drawn  by  more  than  eight  horses.  Eight  horses  is  a  symbolical 
number  which  has  a  significance  in  the  ceremonial.  Seven 
horses,  nine  horses,  are  a  wagoner's  team ;  sixteen  horses  ate 
for  a  stone-mason's  dray ;  eight  horses  are  for  an  Emperor.^ 

The  spectators  upon  the  platforms  have  continued  without 
intermission  to  stamp  with  the  soles  of  their  boots,  except  at 
the  moment  when  the  catafalque  passed  before  them.  Then 
only  are  the  feet  silent.  One  can  tell  that  a  great  thought  flashes 
through  the  crowd. 


The  car  has  resumed  its  progress,  the  drums  beat  a  salute, 
the  firing  of  the  cannon  is  more  rapid.  Napoleon  is  at  the  gates 
of  the  Invalides.    It  is  ten  minutes  to  two. 

Behind  the  bier  come  in  civilian  dress  all  the  survivors  of 
the  Emperor's  household,  then  all  the  survivors  of  the  soldiers 
of  the  Guard,  clad  in  their  glorious  uniforms,  already  unfamiliar 
to  us. 

The  remainder  of  the  procession,  made  up  of  regiments  of 
the  regular  army  and  the  National  Guard,  occupies,  it  is  said, 
the  Quai  d'Orsay,  the  Louis  XVI  bridge,  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, and  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees  as  far  as  the  Arc 
de  I'Etoile. 

The  car  does  not  enter  the  court-yard  of  the  Invalides ;  the 
railings  planted  by  Louis  XIV  are  too  low.  It  turns  off  to 
the  right ;  sailors  are  seen  to  enter  into  the  basement  and  issue 
forth  again  with  the  coffin,  then  disappear  beneath  the  porch 
erected  at  the  entrance  to  the  enclosure.  They  are  in  the  court- 
yard. 

*  December  29,  1840.— It  has  since  been  a    souvenir   of   the    great    ceremony    by 

ascertained  that  the  magnificent  saddle-  buying  a   few  eagles   from   this   mantle, 

cloths    of    gold    brocade    which    capari-  The  manager  of  the  establishment,  wlio, 

8oncd   the   sixteen   horses  were  of  spun  in    obedience    to    the    command    of    the 

glass.      An    unworthy    saving.      An    un-  government,  was  obliged  to  refuse  them, 

■ecmly     deception.      This    singular    an-  is  now  in   a  position  to  accede  to  their 

nouncemcnt    now   appears    in   the   news-  request."     So   we   have  a   bronze   statue 

papers:    "  A    large    number    of    persons  in  plaster,  solid  gold  Victories  in  paste- 

who  came  to  the   spun-glass   warehouse  board,  an  imperial  mantle  in  spun  glass, 

at  No.  97  Rue  de  Chnronne,  to  see  the  and— a    fortnight    after    the    ceremony — 

mantle  which  adorned  the  sides  of  the  eagles  for  sale, 
(■neral  car  of  Napoleon,  wished  to  keep 


FUNERAL   OF   NAPOLEON 


3»3 


All  is  over  for  the  spectators  outside.  They  descend  very 
noisily  and  hurriedly  from  the  platforms.  Knots  of  people 
stop  at  short  distances  apart  before  some  posters  stuck  to  the 
boards,  and  running  thus :  "  Leroy,  refreshment  contractor,  Rue 
de  la  Serpe,  near  the  Invalides.     Choice  wines  and  hot  pastry." 

I  can  now  examine  the  decoration  of  the  avenue.  Nearly  all 
these  statues  in  plaster  are  bad.  Some  are  ridiculous.  The 
Louis  XIV,  which  at  a  distance  had  solidity,  is  grotesque  at 
near  sight.  Macdonald  is  a  good  likeness.  Mortier  the  same. 
Ney  would  be  so  if  he  had  not  had  so  high  a  forehead  given  to 
him.  In  fact,  the  sculptor  has  made  it  exaggerated  and  ridicu- 
lous in  the  attempt  to  be  melancholy.  The  head  is  too  large.  In 
reference  to  this,  it  is  said  that  in  the  hurry  of  improvising  the 
statues  the  measurements  have  been  given  incorrectly.  On  the 
-day  when  they  had  to  be  delivered,  the  statuary  sent  in  a  Mar- 
shal Ney  a  foot  too  tall.  What  did  the  people  of  the  Fine  Arts 
department  do?  They  sawed  out  of  the  statue  a  slice  of  the 
stomach  twelve  inches  wide,  and  stuck  the  tv/o  pieces  together 
again  as  well  as  they  were  able. 

The  bronze-colored  plaster  of  the  statue  of  the  Emperor  is 
stained  and  covered  with  spots,  which  make  the  imperial  robe 
look  like  a  patchwork  of  old  green  baize. 

This  reminds  me,  for  the  generation  of  ideas  is  a  strange 
mystery,  that  this  summer,  at  the  residence  of  M.  Thiers,  I 
heard  Marchand,  the  Emperor's  valet-de-chamhre,  say  how  Na- 
poleon loved  old  coats  and  old  hats.  I  understand  and  share 
this  taste.  For  a  brain  which  works  the  pressure  of  a  new  hat 
is  insupportable. 

The  Emperor,  said  Marchand,  took  away  with  him  when  he 
quitted  France  three  coats,  two  surtouts,  and  two  hats ;  he  got 
through  his  six  years  at  St.  Helena  with  this  wardrobe ;  he  did 
not  wear  any  uniform. 

Marchand  added  other  curious  details.  The  Emperor,  at  the 
Tuileries,  often  appeared  to  rapidly  change  his  attire.  In  re- 
ality this  was  not  so.  The  Emperor  usually  wore  civilian  dress, 
that  is  to  say,  breeches  of  white  kerseymere,  white  silk  stock- 
ings, shoes  with  buckles.  But  there  was  always  in  the  next 
apartment  a  pair  of  riding-boots,  lined  with  white  silk  up  to 
the  knees.  When  anything  happened  which  made  it  necessary 
for  the  Emperor  to  mount  on  horseback,  he  took  off  his  slip- 


314  HUGO 

pers,  put  on  his  boots,  got  into  his  uniform,  and  was  trans- 
formed into  a  soldier.  Then  he  returned  home,  took  off  his 
boots,  put  on  his  slippers  again,  and  became  once  more  a  civilian. 
The  white  breeches,  the  stockings,  and  the  shoes  were  never 
worn  more  than  one  day.  On  the  morrow  these  imperial  cast-off 
clothes  belonged  to  the  valet-de-chamhre. 


It  is  three  o'clock.     A  salvo  of  artillery  announces  that  the 

ceremony  at  the  Invalides  is  at  an  end.    I  meet  B .    He  has 

just  come  out.  The  sight  of  the  coffin  has  produced  an  ineffa- 
ble impression. 

The  words  which  were  spoken  were  simple  and  grand.  The 
Prince  de  Joinville  said  to  the  King,  "  Sire,  I  present  to  you 
the  body  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon."  The  King  replied,  "  I 
receive  it  in  the  name  of  France."  Then  he  said  to  Bertrand, 
"  General,  place  upon  the  coffin  the  glorious  sword  of  the  Em- 
peror." And  to  Gourgaud,  "  General,  place  upon  the  coffin  the 
hat  of  the  Emperor." 

Mozart's  "  Requiem  "  had  but  little  effect.  Beautiful  music 
already  faded  with  age.  Music  too,  alas,  becomes  faded  with 
age! 

The  catafalque  was  only  finished  one  hour  before  the  arrival 

of  the  coffin.    B was  in  the  church  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 

morning.  It  was  as  yet  only  half  draped,  and  ladders,  tools, 
and  workmen  encumbered  it.  The  crowd  were  coming  in  dur- 
ing this  time.  Large  gilt  palms  of  five  or  six  feet  in  height 
were  tried  on  the  four  corners  of  the  catafalque  ;  but  after  being 
put  in  position  they  were  seen  to  produce  but  a  poor  effect. 
They  were  removed.^ 

The  Prince  de  Joinville,  who  had  not  seen  his  family  for  six 
months,  went  up  and  kissed  the  hand  of  the  Queen,  and  heartily 
shook  hands  with  his  brothers  and  sisters.  The  Queen  received 
him  in  stately  fashion,  without  demonstration,  as  a  Queen  rather 
than  as  a  mother. 

During  this  time  the  archbishops,  cures,  and  priests  sang  the 
Requiescat  in  pace  around  the  coffin  of  Napoleon. 

•  December  23d. — Since  the  transfer  of  evening.     The    lighting    of    the    chapel 

the  coffin   the  church   of  the   Invalides  costs   the   State   350   francs   a   day.      M. 

is    open     to    the    crowd     who     visit     it.  Duchatcl,  Minister  of  the  Interior  (who, 

There  pass  through   it   daily  a   hundred  it  may  be  stated,  by  the  way,  is  said  to 

thousand   persons,   from   ten   o'clock   in  be  a  son  of  the  Emperor),  groans  aloud 

the   moming  until   four  o'clock   in  the  at  this  expense. 


FUNERAL   OF   NAPOLEON  315 

The  procession  was  fine,  but  too  exclusively  military,  suffic- 
ing for  Bonaparte,  not  for  Napoleon.  All  the  bodies  in  the  State 
should  have  figured  in  it,  at  least  by  deputy.  The  fact  is,  the 
thoughtlessness  of  the  government  has  been  extreme.  It  was 
in  haste  to  be  done  with  the  affair.  Philippe  de  Segur,  who  fol- 
lowed the  car  as  a  former  aide-de-camp  of  the  Emperor,  told 
me  how  at  Courbevoie,  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  fourteen  degrees,  this  morning,  there  was  not  even  a 
waiting-room  with  a  fire  in  it.  These  two  hundred  veterans  of 
the  Emperor's  household  had  to  wait  for  an  hour  and  a  half  in 
a  kind  of  Greek  temple,  exposed  to  the  wind  from  all  quarters 
of  the  compass. 

The  same  neglect  was  shown  with  respect  to  the  steamboats 
which  took  the  body  from  Havre  to  Paris,  a  journey  remark- 
able, nevertheless,  for  the  earnest  and  solemn  demeanor  of  the 
riverside  populations.  None  of  these  boats  was  suitably  fitted 
up.  Victuals  were  wanting.  No  beds.  Orders  given  that  no 
one  should  land.  The  Prince  de  Joinville  was  obliged  to  sleep, 
one  of  a  party  of  twenty,  in  a  common  room  upon  a  table. 
Others  slept  underneath.  The  men  slept  on  the  ground,  and 
the  more  fortunate  upon  benches  or  chairs.  It  seemed  as 
though  those  in  authority  were  in  ill-humor.  The  Prince  com- 
plained openly  of  it,  and  said,  "  In  this  affair  all  that  emanates 
from  the  people  is  great,  all  that  emanates  from  the  govern- 
ment is  paltry." 


Wishing  to  reach  the  Champs-Elysees,  I  crossed  the  suspen- 
sion-bridge, where  I  paid  my  half-penny.  A  real  act  of  gener- 
osity, for  the  mob  which  crowds  the  bridge  neglects  to  pay. 

The  legions  and  regiments  are  in  battle  array  in  the  Avenue 
de  Neuilly.  The  avenue  is  decorated,  or  rather  dishonored, 
along  its  entire  length  by  fearful  statues  in  plaster  represent- 
ing figures  of  Fame,  and  triumphal  columns  crowned  with 
golden  eagles  and  placed  in  a  blank  space  upon  gray  marble 
pedestals.  The  street-boys  amuse  themselves  by  making  holes 
in  this  marble,  which  is  made  of  cloth. 

Upon  each  column  are  seen,  between  two  bundles  of  tricol- 
ored  flags,  the  name  and  the  date  of  one  of  the  victories  of 
Bonaparte. 


3i6  HUGO 

An  inferior  theatrical-looking  group  occupies  the  top  of  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe :  the  Emperor  erect  upon  a  car  surrounded 
by  figures  of  Fame,  having  on  his  right  Glory,  and  on  his  left 
Grandeur.  What  is  the  meaning  of  a  statue  of  grandeur  ?  How 
can  grandeur  be  expressed  by  means  of  a  statue  ?  Is  it  in  mak- 
ing it  larger  than  the  others  ?    This  is  monumental  nonsense. 

This  scenic  effect,  poorly  gilt,  is  turned  towards  Paris.  By 
going  to  the  other  side  of  the  Arc  one  can  see  the  back  of  it. 
It  is  a  regular  theatrical  set  piece.  On  the  side  looking  towards 
Neuilly,  the  Emperor,  the  Glories,  and  the  Fames  become  sim- 
ply pieces  of  framework  clumsily  shaped. 

With  regard  to  this  matter,  the  figures  in  the  Avenue  des 
Invalides  have  been  strangely  chosen,  be  it  said  by  the  way. 
The  published  list  gives  bold  and  singular  conjunctions  of 
names.    Here  is  one :  Lobau,  Charlemagne,  Hugues  Capet. 


A  few  months  ago  I  was  taking  a  walk  in  these  same  Champs- 
Elysees  with  Thiers,  then  Prime  Minister.  He  would,  with- 
out doubt,  have  managed  the  ceremony  with  greater  success. 
He  would  have  put  his  heart  into  it.  He  had  ideas.  He  loves 
and  appreciates  Napoleon.  He  told  me  some  anecdotes  of 
the  Emperor.  M.  de  Remusat  allowed  him  to  see  the  unpub- 
lished memoirs  of  his  mother.  There  are  in  them  a  hundred 
details.  The  Emperor  was  good-natured,  and  loved  to  tease 
people.  To  tease  is  the  malice  of  good  men.  Caroline,  his 
sister,  wanted  to  be  a  Queen.  He  made  her  a  Queen — Queen 
of  Naples.  But  the  poor  woman  had  many  troubles  from  the 
moment  she  had  a  throne,  and  became,  as  she  sat  on  it,  some- 
what careworn  and  faded.  One  day  Talma  was  breakfasting 
with  Napoleon — etiquette  permitted  Talma  to  come  only  to 
breakfast.  Hereupon  Queen  Caroline,  just  arrived  from  Naples, 
pale  and  fatigued,  calls  upon  the  Emperor.  He  looks  at  her, 
then  turns  towards  Talma,  much  embarrassed  between  these 
two  majesties.  "  My  dear  Talma,"  he  said,  "  they  all  want  to  be 
Queens  ;  they  lose  their  beauty  in  consequence.  Look  at  Caro- 
line.   She  is  a  Queen  ;  she  is  ugly." 


As  T  pass,  the  demolition  is  just  being  finished  of  the  innu- 
merable stands,  draped  witli  black,  and  filled  with  seats,  which 


FUNERAL  OF   NAPOLEON  S'T 

have  been  erected  by  speculators  at  the  entrance  to  the  Avenue 
de  Neuilly.  Upon  one  of  them,  facing  the  Beaujon  garden,  I 
read  this  inscription :  **  Seats  to  let.  Austerlitz  grand  stand. 
Apply  to  M.  Berthellemot,  confectioner." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  avenue,  upon  a  showman's  booth 
adorned  with  frightful  pictorial  signs  representing,  one  of  them 
the  death  of  the  Emperor,  the  other  the  encounter  at  Mazagran, 
I  read  another  inscription :  "  Napoleon  in  his  coffin.  Three 
half-pence." 

Men  of  the  lower  classes  pass  by  and  sing,  "  Long  live  my 
great  Napoleon !  "  "  Long  live  old  Napoleon !  "  Hawkers  make 
their  way  through  the  crowd,  shouting  tobacco  and  cigars! 
Others  offer  to  the  passers-by  some  kind  of  hot  and  steaming 
liquor  out  of  a  copper  tea-urn  covered  with  a  black  cloth.  An 
old  woman  at  a  stall  coolly  puts  on  an  undergarment  in  the 
midst  of  the  hurly-burly.  Towards  five  o'clock  the  funeral  car, 
now  empty,  returns  by  way  of  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees, 
to  be  put  up  under  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  This  is  a  capital 
idea.  But  the  magnificent  spectre-horses  are  tired.  They  walk 
with  difficulty,  and  slowly,  notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  of  the 
drivers.  Nothing  stranger  can  be  imagined  than  the  shouts  of 
hii-ho  and  dia-hu  lavished  upon  this  imperial,  but  at  the  same 
time  fantastic,  team. 

I  return  home  by  the  boulevards.  The  crowd  there  is  im- 
mense; suddenly  it  falls  back  and  looks  round  with  a  certain 
air  of  respect.  A  man  passes  proudly  by  in  its  midst.  He  is 
an  old  hussar  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  a  veteran  of  great  height 
and  lusty  appearance.  He  is  in  full  uniform,  with  tight-fitting 
red  trousers,  a  white  waistcoat  with  gold  braid,  a  sky-blue  pe- 
lisse, a  busby  with  a  grenade  and  plaited  loop,  his  sword  at  his 
side,  his  sabretache  beating  upon  his  thighs,  an  eagle  upon  his 
satchel.  All  round  him  the  little  children  cry,  "  Vive  I'Empc- 
retir!" 

It  is  certain  that  all  this  ceremony  has  been  curiously  like  a 
juggle.  The  government  appeared  to  fear  the  phantom  which 
it  had  raised.  It  seemed  as  though  the  object  was  both  to 
show  and  to  hide  Napoleon,  Everything  which  would  have 
been  too  grand  or  too  touching  was  left  out  of  sight.  The  real 
and  the  grandiose  were  concealed  beneath  more  or  less  splendid 
coverings,  the  imperial  procession  was  juggled  into  the  military 


3i8  HUGO 

procession,  the  army  was  juggled  into  the  National  Guard,  the 
Chambers  were  juggled  into  the  Invalides,  the  coffin  was  jug- 
gled into  the  cenotaph. 

What  was  wanted,  on  the  contrary,  was  that  Napoleon  should 
be  taken  up,  frankly  honored,  treated  royally  and  popularly  as 
Emperor,  and  then  strength  would  have  been  found  just  where 
a  failure  almost  took  place. 


To-day,  the  eighth  of  May,  I  return  to  the  Invalides  to  see 
the  St.  Jerome  chapel,  where  the  Emperor  is  temporarily  placed. 
All  traces  of  the  ceremony  of  the  fifteenth  of  December  have 
disappeared  from  the  esplanade.  The  quincunxes  have  been 
cut  out  afresh ;  the  grass,  however,  has  not  yet  grown  again. 
There  was  some  sunshine,  accompanied  now  and  then  by  clouds 
and  rain.  The  trees  were  green  and  lusty.  The  poor  old  pen- 
sioners were  talking  quietly  to  a  group  of  youngsters,  and  walk- 
ing in  their  little  gardens  full  of  bouquets.  It  is  that  delightful 
period  of  the  year  when  the  late  lilacs  have  shed  their  petals, 
when  the  early  laburnums  are  in  bloom.  The  great  shadows 
of  the  clouds  pass  rapidly  across  the  forecourt,  where  stands 
under  an  archivault  on  the  first  floor  a  plaster  equestrian  statue 
of  Napoleon,  a  rather  pitiful  counterpart  to  the  equestrian  Louis 
XIV,  boldly  chiselled  in  stone  over  the  great  portal. 

All  round  the  court,  below  the  eaves  of  the  building,  are  still 
stuck  up,  as  the  last  vestiges  of  the  funeral,  the  long  narrow 
strips  of  black  cloth  upon  which  had  been  painted  in  golden 
letters,  three  by  three,  the  names  of  the  generals  of  the  Revolu- 
tion and  the  Empire.  The  wind  begins,  however,  to  tear  them 
down  here  and  there.  On  one  of  these  strips,  of  which  the 
torn  end  floated  in  mid-air,  I  read  these  three  names: 

Sauret — Chamhure — Hug — 

The  end  of  the  third  name  had  been  torn  and  carried  off  by 
the  wind.    Was  it  Hugo  or  Huguet  ? 

Some  young  soldiers  were  entering  the  church.  I  followed 
these  tourlonrous,  as  tlie  phrase  goes  nowadays.  For  in  time 
of  war  the  soldier  calls  the  citizen  a  pekin;  in  time  of  peace  the 
citizen  calls  the  soldier  a  tourlourou. 


FUNERAL   OF    NAPOLEON  319 

The  church  was  bare  and  cold,  almost  deserted.  At  the  end 
a  large  gray  cloth  covering,  stretched  from  top  to  bottom,  hid 
the  enormous  archivault  of  the  dome.  Behind  this  covering 
could  be  heard  the  muffled  and  almost  funereal  sound  of  ham- 
mers. 

I  walked  about  for  an  instant  or  two,  reading  upon  the  pillars 
the  names  of  all  the  warriors  buried  there. 

All  along  the  nave  above  our  heads  the  flags  conquered  from 
the  enemy,  that  accumulation  of  splendid  tatters,  were  gently 
wafted  near  the  roof.  In  the  intervals  between  the  blows  of 
the  hammers  I  heard  a  muttering  in  a  corner  of  the  church.  It 
was  an  old  woman  at  confession. 

The  soldiers  went  out,  and  myself  behind  them.  They  turned 
to  the  right  along  the  Metz  corridor,  and  we  mixed  with  a 
tolerably  large  and  very  well-dressed  crowd  going  in  that  direc- 
tion. The  corridor  leads  to  the  inner  court  in  which  the  minor 
entrance  to  the  dome  is  situated. 

There  I  found  three  more  statues,  of  lead,  taken  I  know  not 
where  from,  which  I  remember  to  have  seen  on  this  same  spot 
as  a  little  child  in  1815,  at  the  time  of  the  mutilation  of  build- 
ings, dynasties,  and  nations,  which  took  place  at  that  period. 
These  three  statues,  in  the  worst  style  of  the  Empire,  cold  as 
allegory,  gloomy  as  mediocrity,  stand  alongside  the  wall  there, 
on  the  grass,  amid  a  mass  of  architectural  capitals,  with  an  in- 
describable suggestion  of  tragedies  which  have  been  damned. 
One  of  them  leads  a  lion  by  a  chain,  and  represents  Might. 
Nothing  can  appear  so  much  out  of  place  as  a  statue  standing 
upon  the  ground  without  a  pedestal ;  it  looks  like  a  horse  with- 
out a  rider,  or  a  king  without  a  throne.  There  are  but  two 
alternatives  for  the  soldier — battle  or  death ;  there  are  but  two 
for  the  king — empire  or  the  tomb ;  there  are  but  two  for  the 
statue — to  stand  erect  against  the  sky  or  to  He  f^at  upon  the 
ground.  A  statue  on  foot  puzzles  the  mind  and  bothers  the 
eye.  One  forgets  that  it  is  of  plaster  or  bronze,  and  that  bronze 
does  not  walk  any  more  than  plaster;  and  one  is  tempted  to 
say  to  this  poor  creature  with  a  human  face  so  awkward  and 
wretched-looking  in  its  ostentatious  attitude :  "  Now  then,  go 
on,  be  off  with  you.  march,  keep  going,  move  yourself!  The 
ground  is  beneath  your  feet.  Wbat  stops  you  ?  Who  hinders 
you  ?  "    The  pedestal,  at  least,  explains  the  want  of  motion.    For 


320  HUGO 

statues  as  for  men  a  pedestal  is  a  small  space,  narrow  and  re- 
spectable, with  four  precipices  around  it. 

After  having  passed  by  the  statues  I  turned  to  the  right  and 
entered  the  church  by  the  great  door  at  the  rear,  facing  the 
boulevard.  Several  young  women  pass  through  the  doorway 
at  the  same  time  as  myself,  laughing  and  calling  to  each  other. 
The  sentry  allowed  us  to  pass.  He  was  a  bent  and  melancholy- 
looking  old  soldier,  sword  in  hand,  perhaps  an  old  grenadier  of 
the  Imperial  Guard,  silent  and  motionless  in  the  shadow,  and 
resting  the  end  of  his  worn  wooden  leg  upon  a  marble  fleur-de- 
lys,  half  chipped  out  of  the  stone. 

To  get  to  the  chapel  where  Napoleon  is  one  has  to  walk  over 
a  pavement  tessellated  with  fleurs-de-lys.  The  crowd,  women 
and  soldiers,  were  in  haste.  I  entered  the  church  with  slow 
steps. 


A  light  from  above,  wan  and  pale,  the  light  of  a  workshop 
rather  than  of  a  church,  illuminated  the  interior  of  the  dome. 
Immediately  under  the  cupola,  at  the  spot  where  the  altar  was 
and  the  tomb  will  be,  stood,  covered  on  the  side  of  the  aisle 
by  the  mass  of  black  drapery,  the  immense  scaffolding  used  in 
pulling  down  the  baldachin  erected  under  Louis  XIV.  No  trace 
of  this  baldachin  remained  save  the  shafts  of  six  great  wooden 
columns  supporting  the  head.  These  columns,  destitute  of 
capital  or  abacus,  were  still  supported  vertically  by  six  shaped 
logs  which  had  been  put  in  place  of  the  pedestals.  The  gold 
foliage,  the  spirals  of  which  gave  them  a  certain  appearance  of 
twisted  columns,  had  already  disappeared,  leaving  a  black  mark 
upon  the  six  gilt  shafts.  The  workmen  perched  up  here  and 
there  inside  the  scaffolding  looked  like  great  birds  in  an  enor- 
mous cage. 

Others,  below,  were  tearing  up  the  stone  floor.  Others  again 
passed  up  and  down  the  church,  carrying  their  ladders,  whis- 
tling and  chatting. 

On  my  right  the  chapel  of  Saint-Augustin  was  full  of  debris. 
Huge  blocks,  broken  and  in  heaps,  of  that  splendid  mosaic  work 
in  which  Louis  XIV  had  set  his  flcurs-de-lys  and  sun-ilowcrs 
concealed  the  feet  of  Saint  Monica  and  Saint  Alipa,  looking 
wonder-stricken  and  shocked  in  their  niches.    The  statue  of  Re- 


FUNERAL  OF   NAPOLEON  321 

ligion,  by  Girardon,  erect  between  the  two  windows,  looked 
gravely  down  upon  this  confusion. 

Beyond  the  chapel  of  Saint-Augustin  some  large  marble 
slabs  which  had  formed  the  covering  of  the  dome,  placed  ver- 
tically against  each  other,  half  hid  a  white,  war-like,  recumbent 
figure  of  a  warrior  beneath  a  rather  high  pyramid  of  black  mar- 
ble fixed  in  the  wall.  Underneath  this  figure,  in  a  gap  between 
the  flagstones,  could  be  read  the  three  letters 

u  B  A 

It  was  the  tomb  of  Yanban. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  church,  in  front  of  the  tomb  of 
Vauban,  was  the  tomb  of  Turenne.  The  latter  had  been  treated 
with  greater  respect  than  the  other.  No  accumulation  of  ruins 
rested  against  that  great  sculptural  design,  more  pompous  than 
funereal,  made  for  the  stage  rather  than  the  church,  in  harmony 
with  the  frigid  and  exalted  etiquette  which  ruled  the  art  of 
Louis  XIV.  No  palisade,  no  mound  of  rubbish  prevented  the 
passer-by  from  seeing  Turenne,  attired  as  a  Roman  Emperor, 
dying  of  an  Austrian  bullet  above  the  bronze  bas-relief  of  the 
battle  of  Turckheim,  or  from  deciphering  this  memorable  date, 
1675 — the  year  in  which  Turenne  died,  the  Duke  de  Saint- 
Simon  was  born,  and  Louis  XIV  laid  the  foundation-stone  of 
the  Hotel  des  Invalides. 

On  the  right,  against  the  scaffolding  of  the  dome  and  the  tomb 
of  Turenne,  between  the  silence  of  this  sepulchre  and  the  noise 
of  the  workmen,  in  a  little  barricaded  and  deserted  chapel,  I 
could  discern  behind  a  railing,  through  the  opening  of  a  white 
arch,  a  group  of  gilt  statues,  placed  there  pell-mell,  and  doubt- 
less torn  from  the  baldachin,  conversing  apparently  in  whispers 
on  the  subject  of  all  this  devastation.  There  were  six  of  them — 
six-winged  and  luminous  angels,  six  golden  phantoms,  gloomily 
illuminated  by  a  pale  stream  of  sunlight.  One  of  these  statues 
indicated  to  the  others  with  uplifted  finger  the  chapel  of  Saint- 
Jerome,  gloomy,  and  in  mourning  drapery,  and  seemed  to  utter 
willi  consternation  the  word  Napoleon.  Above  these  six  spec- 
tres, upon  the  cornice  of  the  little  roof  of  the  chapel,  a  great 
angel  in  gilt  wood  was  playing  upon  a  violoncello,  with  eyes 
upturned  to  heaven,  almost  in  the  attitude  which  Veronese  as- 
cribes to  Tintoretto  in  the  "  Marriage  at  Cana." 


32  2  HUGO 

By  this  time  I  had  arrived  at  the  threshold  of  the  chapel  of 

Saint-Jerome. 


A  great  archivault,  with  a  lofty  door-curtain  of  rather  paltry 
violet  cloth,  stamped  with  a  fretwork  pattern,  and  with  golden 
palm-leaves;  at  the  top  of  the  door-curtain  the  imperial  es- 
cutcheon in  painted  wood ;  on  the  left  two  bundles  of  tricolored 
flags,  surmounted  with  eagles  looking  like  cocks  touched  up 
for  the  occasion;  pensioners,  wearing  the  Legion  of  Honor, 
carrying  pikes ;  the  crowd,  silent  and  reverential,  entering  un- 
der the  archway;  at  the  extremity,  eight  or  ten  paces  distant, 
an  iron  gate-way,  bronzed ;  upon  the  gate-way,  which  is  qf  a 
heavy  and  feeble  style  of  ornamentation,  lions'  heads,  gilt  N's 
with  a  tinsel-like  appearance,  the  arms  of  the  empire,  the  main- 
de- justice  and  sceptre,  the  latter  surmounted  by  a  seated  minia- 
ture of  Charlemagne,  crowned,  and  globe  in  hand ;  beyond  the 
gate-way  the  interior  of  the  chapel,  a  something  indescribably 
august,  formidable,  and  striking:  a  swinging  lamp  alight,  a 
golden  eagle  with  wide-spread  wings,  the  stomach  glistening 
in  the  gloomy  reflection  of  the  lamplight,  and  the  wings  in  the 
reflection  of  the  sunlight ;  under  the  eagle,  beneath  a  vast  and 
dazzling  bundle  of  enemies'  flags,  the  coffin,  the  ebony  supports 
and  brass  handles  of  which  were  visible ;  upon  the  coffin  the 
great  imperial  crown,  like  that  of  Charlemagne,  the  gold  laurel 
diadem,  like  that  of  Caesar,  the  violet  velvet  pall  studded  with 
bees ;  in  front  of  the  coffin,  upon  a  credence-table,  the  hat  of 
St.  Helena  and  the  sword  of  Eylau ;  upon  the  wall,  to  the  right 
of  the  coffin,  in  the  centre  of  a  silver  shield,  the  word  Wagram ; 
on  the  left,  in  the  centre  of  another  shield,  another  word — 
Austerlitz ;  all  round  upon  the  wall  a  hanging  of  violet  velvet, 
embroidered  with  bees  and  eagles ;  at  the  top,  on  the  spandrel 
of  the  nave,  above  the  lamp,  the  eagle,  the  crown,  the  sword, 
and  the  coffin,  a  fresco,  and  in  this  fresco  the  angel  of  judgment 
sounding  the  trumpet  over  Saint-Jerome  asleep — that  is  what 
I  saw  at  a  glance,  and  that  is  what  a  minute  sufficed  to  engrave 
upon  my  memory  for  life. 

The  hat,  low  -  crowned,  wide  -  brimmed,  but  little  worn, 
trimmed  with  a  black  ribbon,  out  of  which  appeared  a  small  tri- 
colored cockade,  was  placed  uDon  the  sword,  of  which  the 


FUNERAL   OF   NAPOLEON  323 

chased  gold  hilt  was  turned  towards  the  entrance  to  the  chapel 
and  the  point  towards  the  coffin. 

There  was  some  admixture  of  meanness  amid  all  this  gran- 
deur. It  was  mean  on  account  of  the  violet  cloth,  which  was 
stamped  and  not  embroidered;  of  the  pasteboard  painted  to 
look  like  stone;  of  the  hollow  iron  made  to  look  like  bronze; 
of  that  wooden  escutcheon;  of  those  N's  in  tinsel;  of  that 
canvas  Roman  column,  painted  to  look  like  granite;  of  those 
eagles  almost  like  cocks.  The  grandeur  was  in  the  spot,  in  the 
man,  in  the  reality,  in  the  sword,  in  the  hat,  in  that  eagle,  in 
those  soldiers,  in  that  assemblage  of  people,  in  that  ebony  coffin, 
in  that  ray  of  sunlight. 

The  people  were  there  as  before  an  altar  in  which  the  Su- 
preme Being  should  be  visible.  But  in  leaving  the  chapel, 
after  having  gone  a  hundred  steps,  they  entered  to  see  the 
kitchen  and  the  great  saucepan.  Such  is  the  nature  of  the  peo- 
ple. 


It  was  with  profound  emotion  that  I  contemplated  that  coffin. 
I  remembered  that,  less  than  a  twelvemonth  previously,  in  the 

month  of  July,  a  M. presented  himself  at  my  house,  and 

after  having  told  me  that  he  was  in  business  as  a  cabinetmaker 
in  the  Rue  des  Tourelles,  and  a  neighbor  of  mine,  begged  me 
to  give  him  my  advice  respecting  an  important  and  precious 
article  which  he  was  commissioned  to  make  just  then.  As  I 
am  greatly  interested  in  the  improvement  of  that  small  internal 
architecture  which  is  called  furniture,  I  responded  favorably  to 

the  request,  and  accompanied  M. to  the  Rue  des  Tourelles. 

There,  after  having  made  me  pass  through  several  large,  well- 
filled  rooms,  and  shown  me  an  immense  quantity  of  oak  and 
mahogany  furniture,  Gothic  chairs,  writing-tables  with  carved 
rails,  tables  with  twisted  legs,  among  which  I  admired  a  genu- 
ine old  sideboard  of  the  Renaissance,  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl  and  marble,  very  dilapidated  and  very  charming,  the 
cabinetmaker  showed  me  into  a  great  workshop  full  of  activ- 
ity, bustle,  and  noise,  where  some  twenty  workmen  were  at  work 
upon  some  kind  or  other  of  pieces  of  black  wood  w^hich  they 
had  in  their  hands.  I  saw  in  a  corner  of  the  workshop  a  kind 
of  large  black  ebony  box,  about  eight  feet  long  and  three  feet 


324  HUGO 

wide,  ornamented  at  each  end  with  big  brass  rings.  I  went 
towards  it.  "  That  is  precisely,"  said  the  employer,  "  what  I 
wanted  to  show  to  you."  This  black  box  was  the  coffin  of  the 
Emperor.  I  saw  it  then,  I  saw  it  again  to-day.  I  saw  it  empty, 
hollow,  wide  open.  I  saw  it  once  more  full,  tenanted  by  a  great 
souvenir,  forever  closed. 

I  remember  that  I  contemplated  the  inside  for  a  long  time. 
I  looked  especially  at  a  long  pale  streak  in  the  ebony  M^hich 
formed  the  left-hand  side,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  In  a  few 
months  the  lid  will  be  closed  upon  this  coffin,  and  my  eyes  will 
perhaps  have  been  closed  for  three  or  four  thousand  years  be- 
fore it  will  be  given  to  any  other  human  eyes  to  see  what  I  see 
at  this  moment — the  inside  of  the  coffin  of  Napoleon." 

I  then  took  all  the  pieces  of  the  coffin  which  were  not  yet 
fastened.  I  raised  them  and  weighed  them  in  my  hands.  The 
ebony  was  very  fine  and  very  heavy.  The  head  of  the  estab- 
lishment, in  order  to  give  me  an  idea  of  the  general  effect,  had 
the  lid  put  on  the  coffin  by  six  men.  I  did  not  like  the  com- 
monplace shape  given  to  the  coffin,  a  shape  given  nowadays  to 
all  coffins,  to  all  altars,  and  to  all  wedding  caskets.  I  should 
have  preferred  that  Napoleon  should  have  slept  in  an  Egyptian 
tomb  like  Sesostris,  or  in  a  Roman  sarcophagus  like  Merovee. 
That  which  is  simple  is  also  imposing. 

Upon  the  lid  shone  in  tolerably  large  characters  the  name 
Napoleon.  "  What  metal  are  these  letters  made  of  ?  "  I  asked 
the  man.  He  replied,  "  In  copper,  but  they  will  be  gilded." 
"  These  letters,"  I  rejoined,  "  must  be  in  gold.  In  less  than  a 
hundred  years  copper  letters  will  have  become  oxydized,  and 
will  have  eaten  into  the  wood-work  of  the  coffin.  How  much 
would  gold  letters  cost  the  State  ?  "  "  About  twenty  thousand 
francs,  sir."  The  same  evening  I  called  on  M.  Thiers,  who  was 
then  President  of  the  Council,  and  I  explained  the  matter  to 
him.  "  You  are  right,"  said  M.  Thiers,  "  the  letters  shall  be  of 
gold  ;  I  will  go  and  give  the  necessary  order  for  them."  Three 
days  afterwards  the  treaty  of  the  fifteenth  of  July  burst  upon 
us ;  I  do  not  know  whether  M.  Thiers  gave  the  order,  whether 
it  was  executed,  or  whether  the  letters  on  the  coffin  are  gold 
letters. 

I  left  the  chapel  of  Saint-Jerome  as  four  o'clock  was  strik- 
ing, and  I  said  to  myself  as  I  left,  "  To  all  appearance,  here  is 


FUNERAL  OF   NAPOLEON  325 

a  tinsel  N  which  smashes,  eclipses,  and  supersedes  the  marble 
L's,  with  their  crowns  and  fleurs-de-lys,  of  Louis  XIV ;  but  in 
reality  it  is  not  so.  If  this  dome  is  narrow,  history  is  wide.  A 
day  will  come  when  Louis  XIV  will  have  his  dome  restored  to 
him,  and  a  sepulchre  will  be  given  to  Napoleon.  The  great 
King  and  the  great  Emperor  will  each  be  at  home,  in  peace  the 
one  with  the  other,  both  venerated,  both  illustrious — the  one 
because  he  personifies  royalty  in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  the  other 
because  he  represents  France  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 


To-day,  March  11,  1841,  three  months  afterwards,  I  saw 
once  more  the  Esplanade  of  the  Invalides. 

I  went  to  see  an  old  officer  who  was  ill.  The  weather  was 
the  finest  imaginable ;  the  sun  was  warm  and  young ;  it  was  a 
day  for  the  end  rather  than  the  beginning  of  spring. 

The  whole  esplanade  is  in  confusion.  It  is  encumbered  with 
the  ruins  of  the  funeral.  The  scaffolding  of  the  platforms  has 
been  removed.  The  squares  of  grass  which  they  covered  have 
reappeared,  hideously  cut  up  by  the  deep  ruts  of  the  builder's 
wagons.  Of  the  statues  which  lined  the  triumphal  avenue,  two 
only  remain  standing — Marceau  and  Duguesclin.  Here  and 
there  heaps  of  stone,  the  remains  of  the  pedestals.  Soldiers, 
pensioners,  apple-women,  wander  about  amid  this  fallen  poetry. 

A  merry  crowd  was  passing  rapidly  in  front  of  the  Invalides, 
going  to  see  the  artesian  well.  In  a  silent  corner  of  the  es- 
planade stood  two  omnibuses,  painted  a  chocolate  color  (Bear- 
naises),  bearing  this  inscription  in  large  letters: 

Puits  dc  I' Abattoir  de  Crenelle. 

Three  months  ago  they  bore  this  one: 

Funeral  of  Napoleon  at  the  Invalides. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  building  the  sun  cheered  and  warmed 
a  crowd  of  youngsters  and  old  men,  the  most  charming  sight 
imaginable.  It  was  public  visiting-day.  The  curious  presented 
themselves  in  great  numbers.  Gardeners  were  clipping  the 
hedges.  The  lilacs  were  bursting  into  bud  in  the  little  gardens 
of  tli^  pensioners.    A  little  boy  of  fourteen  years  of  age  was 


326  HUGO 

singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  while  sitting  up  on  the  carriage 
of  the  last  cannon  on  the  right,  the  same  one  which  killed  a 
gendarme  in  firing  the  first  funeral  salvo  on  the  fifteenth  of  De- 
cember. 

I  may  mention,  by  the  way,  that  during  the  last  three  months 
these  excellent  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  century  pieces  have 
been  perched  upon  hideous  little  cast-iron  carriages,  producing 
a  most  mean  and  wretched  effect.  The  old  wooden  carriages, 
enormous,  squat,  massive,  worthily  supported  these  gigantic  and 
magnificent  bronzes.  A  bevy  of  children,  languidly  looked 
after  by  their  nurses,  each  of  whom  was  leaning  against  her 
soldier,  were  playing  among  the  twenty-four  great  culverins 
brought  from  Constantine  and  Algiers. 

These  gigantic  engines,  at  least,  have  been  spared  the  affront 
of  uniform  carriages.  They  lie  flat  on  the  ground  on  the  two 
sides  of  the  gate-way.  Time  has  painted  the  bronze  a  light 
and  pretty  green  color,  and  they  are  covered  with  arabesques 
on  large  plates.  Some  of  them,  the  least  handsome,  it  must  be 
admitted,  are  of  French  manufacture.  Upon  the  breech  is  the 
inscription :  "  Fran9ois  Durand,  metal-founder  to  the  King  of 
France,  Algiers." 

While  I  copied  the  inscription,  a  tiny  little  girl,  pretty  and 
fresh-colored,  dressed  all  in  white,  amused  herself  by  filling 
with  sand,  with  her  ruddy  little  fingers,  the  touchhole  of  one 
of  these  great  Turkish  cannon.  A  pensioner,  with  bare  sword, 
standing  upon  two  wooden  legs,  and  no  doubt  guarding  this 
artillery,  looked  at  her  as  she  did  so,  and  smiled. 

Just  as  I  was  leaving  the  esplanade,  towards  three  o'clock,  a 
little  group  walked  slowly  across  it.  It  was  composed  of  a 
man  dressed  in  black,  with  a  band  of  crape  on  his  arm  and  hat, 
followed  by  three  others,  of  whom  one,  clad  in  a  blue  blouse, 
held  a  little  boy  by  the  hand.  The  man  with  the  crape  had 
under  his  arm  a  kind  of  box  of  a  lightish  color,  half  hidden 
under  a  black  cloth,  which  he  carried  as  a  musician  carries  the 
case  in  which  his  instrument  is  kept.  I  approached  them.  The 
black  man  was  an  undertaker's  mute;  the  box  was  a  child's 
coffin. 

The  course  taken  by  the  little  procession,  parallel  with  the 
front  of  the  Invalidcs,  intersected  at  a  right  angle  that  which, 
three  months  ago,  had  been  followed  by  the  hearse  of  Napoleon. 


ALFRED    DE    MUSSET 


RABELAIS 


BALZAC 


MONTAIGNE 


BY 


CHARLES    AUGUSTIN    SAINTE-BEUVE 


CHARLES  AUGUSTIN   SAINTE-BEUVE 

1804 — 1S69 

The  great  literary  critic  of  France,  Charles  Augustin  Sainte-Beuve, 
was  born  at  Boulogne  in  1804.  He  began  the  study  of  medicine,  but 
soon  turned  to  literature  as  a  pursuit  more  congenial  to  his  tastes. 
His  first  book,  published  in  1827,  was  entitled  "  Tableau  de  la  poesie 
frangaise  au  seizieme  siecle."  During  this  period  he  also  wrote  some 
creditable  poetry.  He,  however,  soon  devoted  himself  entirely  to  liter- 
ary criticism,  contributing  weekly  articles  to  the  "  Constitution,"  the 
"  Moniteur,"  and  other  periodicals.  His  feuilletons  were  published 
every  Monday  and  came  to  be  regarded  as  an  important  weekly  liter- 
ary event.  He  continued  this  series  of  feuilletons  to  the  time  of  his 
death,  which  took  place  in  1869. 

Sainte-Beuve's  system  of  work  was  extremely  methodical.  "  As- 
sisted by  his  secretary,"  says  one  of  his  biographers,  "  he  began  each 
Monday  to  prepare  the  article  for  the  following  week.  Having  selected 
his  subject,  he  dictated  a  rough  outline  of  the  article,  filling  in  blanks 
and  making  corrections  with  his  own  hand.  This  first  draft  was  then 
copied,  revised,  and  sometimes  rewritten.  For  twelve  hours  daily  this 
continued,  until  Thursday,  when  the  manuscript  was  sent  to  the  prin- 
ter. The  proof  was  then  subjected  to  a  revision  as  minute  and  thor- 
ough as  that  which  the  manuscript  had  undergone  before  everything 
was  pronounced  ready  for  publication  on  Monday.  When  it  did  ap- 
pear, the  accuracy  and  aptness  of  every  quotation,  the  correctness  of 
every  name  and  date,  were  as  noteworthy  as  its  general  finish  and 
effect  as  a  whole."  These  articles  formed  a  series  of  literary  mono- 
graphs covering  the  widest  possible  range,  from  the  classic  writers  of 
antiquity  to  the  writers  of  his  own  day.  They  have  been  republished 
under  the  various  titles  of  "  Critiques  et  portraits  litteiraires,"  "  Por- 
traits contemporains,"  "  Causeries  de  lundi,"  and  "  Nouveaux  lundis." 
The  essays  on  "  Alfred  de  Musset,"  "  Rabelais,"  "  Balzac,"  and  "  Mon- 
taigne," given  here,  are  characteristic  examples  of  Saint-Beuve's  lit- 
erary style  and  method.  In  1845  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
Academy,  and  in  1865  became  a  senator  of  the  second  empire. 

Sainte-Beuve's  style  is  a  model  of  French  prose,  being  clear,  digni- 
fied, and  precise.  His  work,  not  only  on  account  of  its  volume  and 
scope,  but  because  of  its  sound  insight  and  discriminating  judgment, 
entitles  Sainte-Beuve  to  rank  as  one  of  the  greatest  critics  in  all  litera- 
ture. 


338 


ALFRED   DE  MUSSET 

IN  a  few  days  a  collection  of  new  poems,  written  by  M.  Al- 
fred de  Musset,  from  1840  to  1849,  will  appear ;  his  former 
delightful  collection  contained  only  the  poems  composed 
before  1840.  A  number  of  lyrics  and  others  (songs,  sonnets, 
epistles)  have  been  published  since  that  date  in  the  "  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  "  and  elsewhere:  they  are  those  which  have  just 
been  collected,  with  the  addition  of  a  few  unpublished  pieces. 
Thus  I  have  a  pretext  of  which,  after  all,  there  is  scarcely  any 
need  for  speaking  of  M.  Alfred  de  Musset,  and  for  forming  a 
general  opinion  of  the  character  of  his  talent,  and  of  his  place 
and  influence  in  our  poetry. 

About  ten  years  ago  M.  de  Musset  addressed  a  "  Letter,"  in 
verse,  to  M.  de  Lamartine,  in  which  he  turned  for  the  first  time 
to  the  prince  of  the  poets  of  the  age,  and  made  him  the  public 
and  direct  declaration  that  the  singer  of  Elvire  had  for  a  long 
time  been  accustomed  to  receive  from  anyone  entering  on  the 
career  of  poet,  but  which  M.  de  Musset,  in  defiance  of  etiquette, 
had  delayed  longer  than  most  to  make  him.  The  poet  of "  Na- 
mouna  "  and  "  Rolla  "  told  him  in  very  fine  lines  that  after 
doubting,  denying,  and  blaspheming,  a  sudden  light  mani- 
fested itself  within  him.  "  I  write,  O  poet !  to  tell  you  of 
my  love — A  ray  of  light  has  penetrated  my  soul — And  at  a 
time  of  grief  and  supreme  sorrow — The  tears  I  shed  brought 
thought  of  thee  to  me." 

In  the  midst  of  his  passion  and  suffering,  a  sentiment  of 
divine  elevation,  an  idea  of  immortality,  was,  he  said,  awak- 
ened in  his  soul ;  the  "  angels  of  sorrow  "  spoke  to  him,  and  he 
naturally  thought  first  of  him  who  revealed  the  sacred  sources 
of  inspiration  in  French  poetry.  M.  de  Musset  opportunely 
recalled  the  lines  which  the  young  Lamartine  had  addressed 
to  Lord  Byron  when  he  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for 
Greece ;  and  without  aspiring  to  an  ambitious  comparison,  he 

•5^9  0— Vol.  60 


330  SAINTE-BEUVE 

asked  Lamartine  to  welcome  him  and  his  offering  now,  as  he 
had  formerly  been  received  by  the  "  Great  Byron." 

A  journal  has  just  published  the  reply  in  verse  which  M.  de 
Lamartine  made  to  M.  de  Musset,  a  reply  bearing  the  date 
1840.  Its  appearance  now  has  almost  an  air  of  injustice,  for  it 
is  many  a  long  day  since  M.  de  Musset  was  the  mere  beginner 
that  M.  de  Lamartine  was  pleased  to  see  in  him.  He  evidently 
took  M.  de  Musset's  modesty  too  Hterally.  He  forgot  that  in 
1840  the  "  fair-haired  child,"  the  "  youth  with  heart  of  wax," 
as  he  calls  him,  had  written  the  "  May  Night  "  and  the  "  Oc- 
tober Night,"  poems  that  will  survive  as  long  as  the  "  Lake," 
and  that  are  equally  passionate,  and  almost  as  pure.  M.  de 
Lamartine's  criticisms  on  poetry  are  superficial;  I  remember 
his  early  criticisms  of  Petrarch  and  of  Andre  Chenier.  In  the 
poem  to  M.  de  Musset  he  stopped  at  the  Musset  of  the  songs, 
of  the  "  Marquise,"  and  the  "  Andalouse."  He  tells  him 
things  disagreeable  to  hear  when  spoken  by  any  other  than 
one's  self.  In  the  "  Confession  of  a  Child  of  the  Century,"  and 
in  many  other  places,  M.  de  Musset  made  confessions  that  po- 
etry in  our  age  sanctions  and  defends.  M.  de  Lamartine  turns 
them  into  a  moral  lesson  ;  he  quotes  himself  as  an  example,  and 
ends,  according  to  custom,  by  insensibly  suggesting  himself 
as  a  model.  This  is  to  what  we  expose  ourselves  in  addressing 
our  homage  to  the  illustrious  men  in  whose  footprints  we  tread. 
M.  de  Lamartine  himself  was  not  so  cordially  received  by  By- 
ron as  M.  de  Musset  seems  to  think.  In  his  "  Memoirs," 
Byron  speaks  of  the  fine  epistle  "  On  Man  "  very  lightly,  of 
the  early  "  Meditations  "  as  the  work  of  someone  who  thought 
fit  to  compare  him  to  the  devil,  and  to  call  him  the  "  singer  of 
hell."  In  fact,  it  is  useless  to  demand  justice  and  attention 
from  illustrious  predecessors  when  we  are  ourselves  of  their 
race ;  they  are  too  full  of  themselves.  How,  I  ask  you,  would 
Byron  have  welcomed  advances  from  Keats,  from  the  young 
wounded  eagle  who  fell  so  soon,  and  whom  he  always  treats 
so  cavalierly — from  the  heights  of  his  pily  or  contempt?  How 
would  M.  de  Chateaubriand  himself,  who  so  cleverly  kept  up 
appearances,  have  criticised  the  underlying  principle  of  M.  de 
Lamartine,  the  poet,  if  not  as  a  man  of  great  talent  and  melody 
who  had  had  success  with  women  and  in  drawing-rooms? 
Poets,  go  straight  to  the  people  for  your  diploma,  and  among 


ALFRED    DE   MUSSET  33» 

them,  to  those  who  feel,  whose  minds  and  hearts  are  free,  to 
the  youths  or  to  men  who  were  youths  yesterday  and  are  old 
to-day,  to  those  who  read  and  sing  you,  to  those,  too,  who  read 
you  again.  It  is  among  them  that  you  will  find  faithful  and 
sincere  friends  who  will  love  you  for  your  fine  qualities  and 
«ot  for  your  faults ;  who  will  not  admire  you  because  it  is  the 
fashion,  and  who,  when  it  shall  change,  will  defend  you  against 
the  fashion. 

M.  de  Musset  came  before  the  public  when  scarcely  twenty 
years  old,  and  from  the  very  first  wished  to  mark  emphatically 
his  unlikeness  to  the  other  poets  then  famous.  In  order  that 
there  should  be  no  mistake  he  assumed  from  the  first  a  mask, 
a  fantastic  costume,  a  manner ;  he  disguised  himself  as  a  Span- 
iard and  an  Italian,  although  he  had  not  yet  seen  Spain  and 
Italy:  hence  ensued  disadvantages  which  were  not  easily 
thrown  off.  I  am  certain  that,  endowed  as  he  was  with  orig- 
inal power  and  an  individual  genius,  even  if  he  had  begun  more 
simply  and  without  taking  so  much  pains  to  make  himself 
singular,  he  would  soon  have  been  distinguished  from  the  poets 
whose  society  he  disclaimed  and  whose  sentimental  and  melan- 
choly, solemn  and  serious  temperaments  were  so  different  from 
his.  He  possessed  a  feeling  for  raillery  which  the  others 
lacked,  and  a  need  of  true  passion  they  felt  but  rarely.  "  My 
first  verses  are  those  of  a  child,  my  second  those  of  a  youth," 
he  said,  criticising  himself.  M.  de  Musset  wrote  his  juvenile 
poems,  but  with  a  brilliance,  an  insolence  of  animation  (as  Re- 
gnier  says),  with  a  more  than  virile  audacity,  with  a  page's 
charm  and  effrontery :  he  was  Cherubino  at  a  masked  ball, 
playing  the  part  of  Don  Juan.  The  early  manner,  in  which 
we  note  a  vein  of  affectation  and  traces  of  reminiscences,  is 
crowned  by  two  poems  (if  we  may  call  poems  things  not  com- 
posed as  such),  by  two  wondrous  divagations,  "  Namouna  " 
and  "  RoUa,"  in  which,  under  the  pretext  of  relating  a  story 
he  always  forgets,  the  poet  breathed  forth  his  dreams  and  fan- 
cies, and  abandoned  himself  to  unrestrained  freedom.  Wit, 
nudities  and  crudities,  lyrical  power,  a  charm  and  refinement 
at  times  adorable,  the  highest  poetry  for  no  reason,  debauch 
along  with  the  ideal,  sudden  whiffs  of  lilac  that  bring  back 
freshness,  here  and  there  a  scrap  of  chic  (to  speak  the  language 
of  the  studio),  all  these  things  mingled  and  compounded,  pro- 


33^  SAINTE-BEUVE 

duced  the  strangest  and  certainly  the  most  astonishing  thing 
that  French  poetry,  the  virtuous  q-irl  who,  already  elderly,  had 
formerly  espoused  M.  de  Malherbe,  had  yet  furnished.  It 
may  be  said  that  in  "  Namouna  "  we  find  the  faults  and  fine 
qualities  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  the  poet.  But  the  latter  are  so 
great  and  of  such  a  high  order  that  they  compensate  for  every- 
thing. 

Byron  wrote  to  his  publisher,  Murray :  "  You  say  that  a  half 
of '  Don  Juan  '  is  very  fine:  you  are  mistaken, -for  if  it  was  true 
it  would  be  the  most  beautiful  poem  that  exists.  Where  is  the 
poem  of  which  a  half  is  of  worth  ?  "  Byron  was  right  in  speak- 
ing thus  about  himself  and  his  contemporaries;  but  opposite 
and  above  is  the  school  of  Vergil,  the  poet  who  wanted  to  burn 
his  poem  because  he  did  not  find  it  perfect  enough  as  a  whole. 
It  was  the  same  Byron  who  wrote :  "  I  am  like  the  tiger  (in 
poetry) :  if  I  fail  at  the  first  leap  I  go  back  muttering  to  my 
cave."  As  a  rule,  modem  French  poets,  Beranger  excepted, 
have  only  aspired  to  making  the  first  leap  in  poetry,  and  what 
they  did  not  reach  then  they  never  attained. 

I  need  not  then  hesitate  to  say  that  in  the  poems  of  "  RoUa  " 
and  of  "  Namouna  "  there  is  a  good  half  that  does  not  corre- 
spond with  the  other.  The  fine  part  of  "  Namouna,"  the  part  in 
which  the  poet  reveals  himself  with  full  power,  is  the  second 
canto.  It  is  there  that  M.  de  Musset  unfolds  his  theory  of 
Don  Juan,  and  contrasts  the  two  sorts  of  libertines  who,  ac- 
cording to  him,  share  the  stage  of  the  world:  the  heartless 
libertine,  ideal,  full  of  egoism  and  vanity,  finding  it  difificult  to 
get  pleasure  out  of  anything,  and  only  desirous  of  inspiring 
love  without  returning  it,  Lovelace,  in  fact ;  and  the  other 
type  of  libertine,  amiable  and  loving,  almost  innocent,  passing 
through  all  phases  of  inconstancy  in  order  to  reach  an  ideal 
that  eludes  him,  believing  he  loves,  the  dupe  of  none  but  him- 
self in  his  seductions,  and  changing  only  because  he  ceases  to 
love.  There,  according  to  M.  de  Musset,  is  the  real  poetical 
Don  Juan,  "  whom  no  one  succeeded  in  drawing,  whom 
Mozart  dreamed  of,  whom  Hoffmann  saw  pass  before  him  to 
the  sound  of  music — In  a  divine  lightning  flash  on  one  of  bis 
fantastic  nights — An  excellent  portrait  he  never  finished — And 
which  in  our  time  a  Shakespeare  might  have  painted."  And 
M.  de  Musset  attempts  to  paint  him  in  the  brightest  and  most 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET  S33 

charming  colors,  in  colors  which  remind  me  (Heaven  forgive 
me !)  of  those  used  by  Milton  when  painting  his  happy  couple 
in  Eden.  He  shows  him  to  us,  handsome,  twenty  years  of  age, 
sitting  by  a  meadow-side  near  his  sleeping  mistress,  and  watch- 
ing over  her  slumber  like  an  angel.  "  There  he  is,  young  and 
handsome,  under  the  sky  of  France  .  .  .  Bringing  to  nature 
a  heart  full  of  hope — Loving,  loved  by  all,  open  as  a  flower ; 
So  candid  and  fresh  that  the  angel  of  innocence — Would  kiss 
on  his  brow  the  beauty  of  his  heart — There  he  is,  look  at  him, 
divine  his  life  for  him — What  fate  can  be  predicted  for  that 
child  of  heaven? — Love,  in  approaching  him,  swears  to  be 
everlasting!  Fortune  thinks  of  him,  .  .  ."  And  all  that  fol- 
lows. From  a  poetical  point  of  view  nothing  could  be  more 
delightful,  better  imagined,  and  better  carried  out.  Neverthe- 
less, in  vain  has  the  poet  created,  in  vain  has  he  desired  to  draw 
for  us  an  unique  Don  Juan,  a  contradiction  as  he  makes  him, 
living  almost  innocent  in  the  midst  of  his  crimes ;  the  "  inno- 
cent corrupter  "  does  not  exist.  He  succeeded  in  evoking  him, 
in  giving  momentary  life  by  his  magic  to  an  impossible  ab- 
straction. It  is  said  that  words  do  no  harm  on  paper.  Such 
a  combination  and  contrast  of  virtues  and  vices  in  the  same 
being  is  all  very  well  to  write  about,  and  especially  to  celebrate 
in  verse,  but  it  is  true  neither  according  to  humanity  nor  nat- 
ure. And  then,  why  put  us  to  the  absolute  alternative  of 
choosing  between  the  two  sorts  of  libertines  ?  Would  poetry 
suffer,  O  poet!  if  there  were  no  libertines?  In  the  divine 
company  of  Vergil's  Elysian  Fields,  in  which  the  greatest  of 
mortals  hold  a  place,  there  is  room  in  the  first  rank  for  the 
virtuous  poets,  for  the  poets  who  were  entirely  human,  who 
uttered  with  emotion  and  tenderness  the  large  accents  of  nat- 
ure: 

" Qtiiqiie pit  vates  et  Phoebo  digna  lociiti." 

How  distant  such  subtleties  were  from  those  lofty  and  whole- 
some thoughts ! 

So  much  for  my  reservations.  There  are,  however,  in  "  Na- 
mouna  "  two  or  three  hundred  consecutive  lines  quite  beyond 
comparison.  Be  incredulous,  and  turn  them  about  in  every 
sense ;  apply  the  surgeon's  knife ;  cavil  at  your  pleasure ;  a  few 
stains,  a  little  loud  coloring  may  be  discovered ;  but  if  you 


334  SAINTE-BEUVE 

possess  true  poetic  feeling,  and  if  you  are  sincere,  you  will 
recognize  the  strength  and  power  of  the  inspiration;  the  god 
— or  if  you  prefer  it,  the  devil — has  touched  it. 

Young  men,  who  in  such  a  matter  are  scarcely  ever  mis- 
taken, were  the  first  to  recognize  it.  When  the  poems  of "  Na- 
mouna  "  and  "  Rolla  "  had  only  appeared  in  the  reviews,  and 
before  they  were  collected  in  a  volume,  law  students  and  med- 
ical students  knew  them  by  heart  from  beginning  to  end,  and 
recited  them  to  their  friends,  the  new  arrivals.  Many  of  them 
still  know  the  splendid  exordium  of  "  Rolla,"  the  apostrophe 
to  Christ,  the  other  apostrophe  to  Voltaire  (for  there  are  many 
apostrophes),  especially  the  enchanting  slumber  of  the 'fifteen- 
year-old  girl :  "  Oh !  the  flower  of  Eden,  why  hast  thou  let  it 
fade — Careless  child,  beautiful  fair-haired  Eve?  ..."  I  speak 
of  young  men  as  they  were  ten  years  ago.  Then  the  whole 
of  these  youthful  poems  were  recited;  now,  perhaps,  a  selec- 
tion is  already  beginning  to  be  made. 

After  "  Namouna  "  and  "  Rolla,"  there  remained  one  step 
for  M.  de  Musset  to  take.  He  had  gone  as  far  as  was  possible 
in  the  attempt  and  anticipation  of  passion  without  being 
touched  by  passion  itself.  But  by  means  of  talking  of  it,  by 
attributing  to  himself  the  desire  and  torment  of  it,  patience! 
it  will  come.  In  spite  of  his  insults  and  blasphemies,  his  heart 
was  worthy  of  it.  He  who  had  described  in  burning  stanzas 
the  odious  and  selfish  Lovelace,  and  had  made  a  show  of  lib* 
ertine  pretensions,  had  at  base  the  heart  of  an  honest  man  and 
of  a  poet.  For,  observe  carefully,  that  even  with  the  author 
of  "  Namouna,"  coxcombry  (if  I  dare  say  it)  is  only  on  the 
surface :  he  throws  it  oflf  as  soon  as  the  flame  of  his  poetry  is 
kindled. 

At  length  M.  de  Musset  loved.  He  told  and  repeated  it  so 
often  in  his  verse,  his  passion  has  made  so  much  noise,  and 
has  been  so  loudly  proclaimed  on  both  sides  and  in  all  tones, 
that  we  commit  no  indiscretion  in  stating  it  here  in  simple 
prose.  Besides,  it  is  never  a  dishonor  for  a  woman  to  have 
been  loved  and  sung  by  a  true  poet,  even  when  afterwards 
she  seems  to  be  cursed  for  it.  The  malediction  is  a  supreme 
homage.  A  far-sighted  confidant  could  say:  "  Take  care,  you 
love  her  still." 

That  love  was  the  great  event  of  M.  de  Musset's  life,  I  mean 


ALFRED   DE    MUSSET  335 

of  his  poetic  life.  His  talent  was  suddenly  purified  and  en- 
nobled ;  the  sacred  flame  seemed  on  a  sudden  to  reject  all  im- 
pure alloy.  In  the  poems  composed  under  that  powerful  star 
almost  all  the  faults  disappeared ;  his  finer  qualities,  till  then, 
as  it  were,  scattered  and  fragmentary,  were  combined,  assem- 
bled, and  grouped  in  a  powerful  although  sad  harmony.  The 
four  poems  M.  de  Musset  called  "  Nights  "  are  short,  complex, 
meditative  poems,  marking  the  loftiest  height  of  his  lyrical 
genius.  The  *'  May  Night  "  and  the  "  October  Night "  are 
the  finest  for*the  flow  and  the  inexhaustible  vein  of  the  poetry, 
for  the  expression  of  violent  and  unmasked  passion.  But  the 
"  December  Night  "  and  the  "  August  Night  "  are  also  delight- 
ful— the  latter  for  action  and  sentiment,  the  former  for  grace 
and  flexibility  of  expression.  The  four,  taken  together,  make 
one  work,  animated  by  the  same  sentiment,  possessing  har- 
mony and  skilfully  contrived  relations. 

Parallel  with  De  Musset's  "  Nights  "  I  read  over  again  the 
famous  poems  of  Milton's  youth,  "  L'Allegro,"  and  especially 
"  II  Penseroso."  But  in  those  compositions  of  supreme  and 
somewhat  cold  beauty  the  poet  was  passionless ;  he  waited  for 
an  impulse  from  without ;  he  received  his  impressions  succes- 
sively from  nature ;  he  carried  to  it  a  grave,  noble,  sensible 
temperament,  but  calm  like  a  mirror  slightly  ruffled.  The 
"  Penseroso  "  is  the  masterpiece  of  meditative  and  contem- 
plative poems ;  it  resembles  a  magnificent  oratorio,  in  which 
by  degrees  prayer  slowly  ascends  to  the  Eternal.  The  con- 
trast to  the  subject  in  hand  is  very  noticeable.  I  am  not  in- 
stituting a  comparison.  Let  us  not  displace  august  names 
from  their  proper  sphere.  All  that  is  fine  in  Milton  is  beyond 
comparison  ;  it  reveals  the  calm  habitude  of  high  regions  and  a 
continuity  of  power.  However,  in  the  more  terrestrial,  and  at 
the  same  time  more  human,  "  Nights  "  of  M.  de  Musset,  it  is 
from  within  that  the  inspiration,  the  passion  that  paints  and 
the  breeze  that  makes  nature  fragrant,  springs ;  or,  rather,  the 
charm  consists  in  the  combination  and  alliance  of  the  two 
sources  of  impressions — that  is  to  say,  of  a  deep  sorrow  and 
of  a  soul  still  open  to  vivid  impressions.  The  poet,  wounded 
to  the  heart,  shedding  real  tears,  is  conscious  of  a  renewal  of 
youth,  and  is  almost  intoxicated  by  the  spring.  He  is  more 
sensitive  than  before  to  the  innumerable  beauties  of  the  uni- 


336  SAINTE-BEUVE 

verse,  to  the  verdure  and  the  flowers,  to  the  morning  sunlight, 
to  the  birds'  songs,  and  fresh  as  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  brings 
us  his  poesy  of  hlies  and  eglantine.  M.  de  Musset's  muse  will 
always,  even  at  the  least  happy  moments,  be  conscious  of  such 
renewals;  but  in  no  other  place  will  the  natural  freshness  be 
so  happily  wedded,  as  in  this  case,  to  bleeding  passion  and 
sincere  grief.  Poetry,  chaste  consoler,  was  there  treated  al- 
most with  adoration  and  affection. 

Which  of  the  poets  of  this  age  will  survive  ?  Rash  would  be 
the  man  who  should  at  the  present  time  take  upon  himself  the 
task  of  assigning  lots  and  making  a  division.  But  in  our  day 
time  runs  on  so  swiftly  that  even  now  we  can  recognize  its 
different  effects  on  works  which  at  their  birth  seemed  equally 
likely  to  live.  Consider  the  works  that  were  at  first  most 
warmly  greeted  and  applauded :  how  many  places  are  already 
empty,  how  many  colors  already  pale  and  faded !  One  of  the 
poets  most  certain  to  survive,  Beranger,  said  to  me  one  day: 
"  You  all  began  too  young,  and  before  you  arrived  at  ma- 
turity." He  might  easily  speak  thus.  It  is  not  every  man's 
good  fortune  to  meet  obstacles  which  restrain  and  keep  him 
back  until  the  right  moment — the  moment  at  which  the  fruit 
as  well  as  the  flowers  can  be  produced.  Beranger  (he  or  his 
good  fairy)  had  the  sense  to  let  the  poetry  of  the  Empire  die 
away  before  his  came  into  being;  had  he  planned  his  life  him- 
self, he  could  not  have  had  a  greater  success.  The  others,  a 
little  sooner,  a  little  later,  all  very  young,  some  still  children, 
entered  the  lists  pell-mell  entirely  at  hazard.  What  may  be 
stated  with  certainty  is  that  a  rich  lyrical  poetry,  richer  than 
France  until  then  had  suspected,  but  an  unequal  and  motley 
poetry,  resulted  during  several  seasons  from  that  assemblage 
of  talent.  The  greater  number  of  the  poets  abandoned  them- 
selves without  curb  or  bridle  to  all  the  instincts  of  their  nature, 
and  moreover  to  all  the  pretensions  of  their  pride  and  the  fool- 
ishness of  their  vanity.  Faults  and  fine  qualities  came  out  in 
all  their  freedom,  and  posterity  will  have  to  do  the  sorting. 
We  feel  it  has  begun  already.  Which  among  the  poems  writ- 
ten between  1819  and  1830  are  read  now  with  emotion  and 
pleasure?  I  merely  state  tiic  proposition,  and  have  no  inten- 
tion of  solving  it,  nor  of  following  closely  the  faint  yet  visible 
line  that,  among  illustrious  men  most  sure  of  themselves,  al- 


ALFRED   DE    MUSSET  337 

ready  divides  the  quick  from  the  dead.  Poets  of  to-day,  there 
are  three  or  four  of  you  who  will  claim  the  sceptre,  who  be- 
lieve that  each  is  the  first !  Who  knows  which  is  he,  who  with 
our  indifferent  descendants  will  have  the  last  word  ?  Some  of 
your  accents  will  surely  reach  posterity,  and  therein  lies  your 
honor;  it  will  cover  the  rest  of  them  in  a  kindly  oblivion. 
Nothing  complete  of  the  poets  of  the  time  will  survive.  M.  de 
Musset  will  not  escape  that  fate,  and  on  that  score  he  has  per- 
haps little  reason  to  complain;  for  his  accents  will  reach  much 
farther,  and  we  may  beheve  will  pierce  time  the  better,  be- 
cause they  will  have  been  thus  purified.  His  accents  are  ac- 
cents of  pure  passion,  and  it  is  in  the  "  Nights  "  that  they  are 
specially  to  be  found. 

M.  de  Musset  has  quite  a  small  school  of  imitators.  What 
do  they  imitate  in  him?  That  which  imitators  usually  copy, 
form,  surface,  the  smart  tone,  the  sprightly  gesture,  the  dash- 
ing faults,  everything  that  he  knew  how  to  carry  off  with  a 
certain  charm  and  ease,  they  religiously  set  to  work  to  copy. 
They  imitated  his  vocabulary  in  the  names  of  gallants,  "  Ma- 
non,  Ninon,  Marion,"  his  jingle  of  courtesans  and  marquises. 
They  imitated  his  weak  lines  and  his  affectations  of  careless- 
ness. They  took  the  form  and  the  bad  habit ;  but  the  fire,  the 
passion,  the  elevation,  and  the  lyrical  power  they  did  not  care, 
and  for  good  reasons,  to  borrow  from  him. 

Sometimes  the  French  public  criticises  poetry  in  strange 
fashion.  I  mentioned  above  those  who  in  the  young  genera- 
tion were  the  first  to  admire  M.  de  Musset  with  sincerity  and 
candor.  A  piquant  chapter  concerning  manners  might  be 
written,  taking  as  a  text  the  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  the 
enthusiasts  who,  following  the  rest,  have  fully  adopted  him, 
the  same  who  five-and-twenty  years  ago  would  have  admired 
Alexandrines,  because  they  beheved  them  to  be  cast  in  the 
mould  of  Racine,  and  who  now  extol  the  slightest  trifles  of  the 
brilliant  poet  equally  with  his  best  and  really  good  work.  It 
was  not  when  he  was  at  his  best  that  he  became  the  fashion 
and  the  vogue ;  as  usually  happens,  it  came  later,  but  is  now 
a  fact.  He  is  the  favorite  poet  of  the  day ;  the  boudoir  out- 
does the  inns  of  court.  When  we  are  young,  and  new  to  the 
world,  it  is  by  Musset  we  prefer  to  attack  modem  poetry. 
Mothers  do  not  advise  their  daughters  to  read  it,;  husbands 


338  SAINTE-BEUVE 

read  it  t©  their  young  wives  from  the  first  year  of  marriage. 
I  believe  I  once  saw  a  volume  of  his  poems  slipped  among  the 
wedding  presents,  an  amusing  circumstance,  and  not  altO' 
gether  displeasing  to  the  poet.  He  should  hasten  to  enjoy  it, 
and  should  not  rely  on  it. 

The  lyrics  produced  by  M.  de  Musset  since  the  "  Nights," 
and  which  have  just  been  collected,  contain  some  remarkable 
poems.  I  point  out  one  called  "  A  Lost  Evening,"  where  he 
charmingly  mingles  a  motive  of  Andre  Chenier  with  a  thought 
of  Moliere,  a  satire  "  On  Idleness,"  in  which  the  poet  was  in- 
fluenced by  reading  Regnier;  a  pretty  tale,  "  Simone,"  savor- 
ing of  Boccaccio  and  La  Fontaine ;  but  especially  a  "  Recol- 
lection," full  of  charm  and  feeling,  where  the  inspiration  came 
from  himself  alone.  The  poet  once  again  revisited  places  dear 
to  him,  some  forest,  Fontainebleau  maybe,  where  he  had  spent 
happy  days.  His  friends  feared  the  eflfect  of  the  pilgrimage 
and  of  the  awakening  of  his  memories.  There  is  no  greater 
woe,  says  Dante,  than  the  remembrance  of  past  happy  days  in 
misery.  But  M.  de  Musset  experienced  the  contrary ;  and  he 
tells  us  how  he  found  the  awakening  of  the  past  that  was  feared 
for  him,  and  that  he  himself  feared,  consoUng  and  sweet.  To 
be  frank,  that  is  the  kind  of  poem  I  like  in  M.  de  Musset,  and 
by  no  means  the  little  verses  "  On  Three  Steps  of  Rose-colored 
Marble,"  and  other  gew-gaws  which  savor  of  their  source. 

M.  de  Musset's  taste  has  reached  maturity,  and  it  would  be 
best  henceforth  for  his  talent  to  obey  his  taste  and  not  to  allow 
itself  any  more  weaknesses.  After  so  many  varied  attempts 
and  experiences,  after  trying  to  love  many  things  in  order  to 
discover  the  only  and  supreme  one  worthy  of  love,  that  is  to 
say  simple  truth  clothed  at  the  same  time  with  beauty,  it  is 
not  wonderful  that  when  we  return  to  it  and  recognize  it,  we 
find  ourselves  less  animated  and  more  fatigued  in  its  presence 
than  we  were  in  the  presence  of  the  idols.  However,  his 
genius  possesses  power  of  renewal,  sources  of  youth  of  which 
he  has  more  than  once  shown  that  he  knew  the  secret,  and 
which  he  has  not  yet  exhausted.  For  a  few  years  his  genius 
has  exhibited  itself  to  the  public  in  a  new  form,  and  the  poet 
has  triumphed  in  a  somewhat  hazardous  experiment.  The 
delicate  sketches,  charming  proverbs  that  he  did  not  intend 
for  the  stage,  suddenly  became  delightful  little  comedies  that 


ALFRED    DE   MUSSET  339 

arose  and  walked  before  us.  The  success  of  his  "  Caprice  " 
did  honor,  I  do  not  fear  to  say  it,  to  the  public,  and  proves  that 
for  him  who  can  awaken  it,  it  still  possesses  delicate  literary 
feeling.  He  has  seen  the  circle  of  his  admirers  extend  as  if 
by  magic.  Many  minds  that  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
seeking  him  out  for  his  lyrical  talent  learned  to  appreciate  him 
in  his  easy  and  graceful  proverbs.  He  had  more  than  ever  the 
suffrages  of  men  of  the  world,  and  of  young  women ;  he  made 
eccentric  and  inelegant  critics  angry ;  nothing  wanted  to  his 
success.  For  all  that,  I  cannot  say  I  am  mad  for  his  "  Loui- 
son  " ;  it  is  only  a  style.  M.  de  Musset  as  a  dramatic  poet  has 
still  much  to  learn.  On  the  stage  a  happy  situation,  ingenious 
dialogue  are  not  enough ;  invention,  fertility,  development, 
above  all,  action,  are  necessary  to  consummate,  as  it  has  been 
said,  the  work  of  the  devil.  But  it  is  time  to  conclude,  and 
without  asking  too  much,  without  making  more  ceremony 
than  M.  de  Musset  himself,  I  shall  end  with  a  line  of  his  own 
that  puts  a  stop  to  argument : 

"  What  do  I  say  !    Such  as  he  is,  the  world  loves  him  still," 


RABELAIS 

A  WRITER,  as  yet  little  known,  who,  judging  from  his 
ideas,  must  be  young,  has  just  published  a  pleasant  little 
book  on  Rabelais,  whom  he  places  in  a  sort  of  gallery 
of  French  legends.  The  word  legend  sufficiently  indicates  that 
the  young  author  has  not  attempted  to  give  an  accurate,  exact, 
and  critical  biography  of  Rabelais,  and  has  welcomed  the  Rabe- 
lais of  tradition,  such  as  popular  imagination  has  transformed 
him.  Later  on,  when  I  have  talked  for  a  space  with  the  master, 
and  tried  to  refresh  my  memory  of  him,  I  shall  say  a  word  of  the 
spirit  in  which  the  little  pamphlet  is  written. 

If  only  it  could  be  accomplished,  what  would  we  not  give  to 
talk  with  Rabelais,  to  come  for  an  instant  into  contact  with 
him  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  to  hear  him?  Everyone  has  his 
ideal  in  the  past.  I  believe  the  nature  and  bent  of  each  mind 
would  be  best  shown  in  the  choice  of  the  person  first  sought  if 
we  went  back  to  a  bygone  age.  Some,  I  know,  would  have  no 
particular  choice,  but  would  wander  indifferently  from  one  to 
the  other,  or  would  not  even  go  at  all.  Let  us  leave  minds  like 
those,  wanting  in  love,  passion,  and  desire ;  they  are  lukewarm 
spirits  who  lack  the  sacred  fire  of  literature.  I  know  others 
who  would  rush  to  many  at  one  time,  and,  in  their  eagerness 
and  affection,  would  embrace  a  crowd  of  favorite  authors  with- 
out knowing  by  whom  to  commence.  Those  minds  are  not  in- 
different like  the  others,  they  are  not  lukewarm ;  they  are  vola- 
tile, unsettled,  and  I  fear  we  critics  have  something  in  common 
with  them.  But  the  wise  and  praiseworthy  minds  are  those 
who  have  a  decided  taste  in  the  past,  an  avowed  preference ; 
who  would,  for  example,  make  straight  for  Moliere  without 
stopping  even  at  Bossuet.  They  are  those,  in  fact,  who  have 
the  courage  of  their  passion,  and  do  not  seek  to  disguise  their 
highly  placed  affection.     At  that  price,  were  it  possible  to  spend 

341 


342  SAINTE-BEUVE 

a  whole  day  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  to  talk  every  man  witH 
his  author,  to  whom  would  you  go  ? 

Calvin,  Rabelais,  Amyot,  and  Montaigne  are  the  four  great 
prose  writers  of  the  sixteenth  century ;  Rabelais  and  Montaigne 
might  rather  be  called  two  poets.  I  do  not  here  include  a  num- 
ber of  secondary  writers,  worthy  to  be  mentioned  and  saluted 
at  their  side.  On  the  day  which  I  suppose  we  might  spend  in 
the  sixteenth  century  with  our  chosen  author,  I  scarcely  think 
at  the  present  time  Calvin  would  find  many  friends.  Good 
Amyot,  with  his  kindly  old  man's  smile  and  his  somewhat  lan- 
guid charms,  would  have  some  attraction  for  us.  But  all  would 
flock  to  Montaigne — all  except  a  numerous  and  decided  com- 
pany who,  while  regretting  the  necessity  of  choosing  between 
the  two,  would  elect  to  pay  their  respects  to  Rabelais. 

In  the  taste  of  certain  persons  for  Rabelais  and  their  worship 
of  him,  there  is  more  even  than  admiration,  there  is  the  alert 
curiosity  which  belongs  to  a  spice  of  the  unknown  and  myste- 
rious. We  almost  know  in  advance  what  Montaigne  would  be 
like ;  we  picture  him  almost  as  he  would  appear  at  first  view ; 
but  Rabelais,  who  knows  him  ?  Rabelais's  life  and  true  charac- 
ter have  been  much  discussed.  I  believe,  and  every  thoughtful 
reader  will  believe  with  me,  that  those  who  expected  to  find  in 
him  exactly  the  man  of  his  book,  a  sort  of  jovial  priest-physi- 
cian, a  half-drunken  bufifoon  living  like  a  fighting-cock,  would 
be  vastly  disappointed.  Rabelais's  debauches  were  held  en- 
tirely in  his  imagination  and  humor;  they  were  studious  de- 
bauches, debauches  of  a  very  learned  man,  full  of  good  sense, 
who,  pen  in  hand,  gave  himself  up  to  them  without  restraint. 
I  am  none  the  less  convinced,  however,  that  after  a  very  short 
time  passed  in  intercourse  with  him,  in  associating  with  the 
man  of  science  and  the  student — doubtless  very  good  company 
for  his  time — the  inimitable  jester  would  as  a  matter  of  fact  be 
very  quickly  discovered.  It  was  impossible  that  the  natural 
flow  of  such  a  vein  could  be  restrained  and  not  allowed  to  come 
out.  The  man's  person,  however  noble  in  bearing,  and  how- 
ever venerable  its  first  aspect,  would  at  times  grow  animated 
and  rejoice  in  the  thousand  sallies  of  the  inner  genius,  the  irre- 
sistible good  humor  which  frolics  in  his  romance  or  rather  in  his 
drama.  I  say  that  of  Rabelais  as  of  Moliere.  The  latter  was 
not  always  gay  and  amusing,  quite  the  contrary ;  he  was  called 


RABELAIS  343 

"  the  contemplative  man  " ;  when  he  was  alone,  he  was  even  sad 
and  melancholy.  But  it  is  certain  that  excited  and  urged  to 
converse,  he  would  again  become  the  Moliere  we  know.  So 
doubtless  would  it  be  with  Rabelais.  There  is  a  charming  piece 
of  Latin  verse  on  Rabelais,  physician  and  anatomist,  by  Etienne 
Dolet,  the  man  who  was  burnt  alive  for  the  crime  of  heresy. 
In  it  Dolet  makes  a  criminal,  who  had  the  honor  of  being  dis- 
sected after  his  execution  in  the  public  amphitheatre  of  Lyons, 
by  Rabelais  himself,  and  at  any  rate  furnished  the  subject  of  a 
good  lesson  in  anatomy,  speak :  "  In  vain  did  an  adverse  for- 
tune desire  to  cover  me  with  outrage  and  shame,"  said  the 
criminal  in  Dolet's  lines;  "  it  was  otherwise  decreed.  If  I  died 
in  a  disgraceful  manner,  there  was  a  moment  in  which  I  gained 
more  than  anyone  would  have  dared  to  hope  from  great  Jove's 
favor.  Exposed  in  a  public  theatre,  I  was  dissected :  a  learned 
physician  describing  me,  explained  to  all  how  nature  formed 
the  human  body  with  beauty,  art,  and  perfect  harmony.  A  nu- 
merous company  surrounded  me  and  contemplated  all  my  parts, 
and,  while  listening  to  him,  admired  the  wonders  of  the  human 
structure."  Truly,  when  Rabelais  gave  that  public  lecture  on 
anatomy  in  the  Lyons  amphitheatre,  he  must,  like  Vesalius, 
have  had  the  doctor's  and  master's  venerable  aspect  of  which 
some  of  his  contemporaries  have  spoken,  and  must  have  worthily 
represented  the  dignity  of  science. 

Son  of  a  tavern-keeper  or  apothecary  of  Chinon,  it  is  known 
that  he  began  life  as  a  monk  and  a  Franciscan.  The  seriousness 
and  elevation  of  his  tastes,  the  natural  and  generous  liberty  of 
his  inclinations  soon  rendered  him,  in  that  age  of  decadence,  an 
unsuitable  subject  for  a  monastery  of  that  order.  He  left,  tried 
the  Benedictines,  a  less  contemptible  order,  but  fared  no  better 
there;  then  he  put  oflf  the  regular  monastical  habit,  and  donned 
the  costume  of  a  secular  priest.  As  we  say,  he  threw  his  gown 
to  the  dogs,  and  went  to  study  medicine  at  Montpellier.  The 
little  known  with  certainty  of  his  actual  and  not  legendary 
biography  has  been  well  put  together  and  set  forth  in  the  thirty- 
second  volume  of  Niceron's  "  Memoirs."  If  the  honest  biog- 
rapher represents  Rabelais  with  slightly  austere,  or  at  any  rate 
serious  characteristics,  and  with  much  sobriety,  he  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  saying  nothing  problematical,  and  of  being  free  from 
prejudice.     There,  the  bulls  Rabelais  was  clever  enough  to  ob- 


344 


SAINTE-BEUVE 


tain  from  the  Holy  See  during  one  of  his  voyages  to  Rome  in 
Cardinal  du  Bellay's  suite,  by  which  he  prudently  set  himself 
right  with  his  enemies  in  France,  may  be  seen.  In  a  bull  dated 
January  12,  1536,  it  is  stated  that  he  was  permitted  to  practise 
the  art  of  medicine  everywhere,  gratuitously,  however,  and  ex- 
cluding the  application  of  the  knife  and  caustic ;  those  sort  of 
operations  were  forbidden  to  priests.  But  nothing  was  said 
of  the  pantagruelic  books  he  had  already  written  and  was  going 
to  write ;  and  never  did  Rabelais  think  it  incumbent  on  him  to 
forbid  them  to  himself. 

Nothing  is  less  easy  than  to  hit  on  the  right  way  of  speaking 
of  those  books,  for  Rabelais  takes  licenses  peculiarly  his  own,  of 
which  the  most  enthusiastic  critic  cannot  take  the  responsibility. 
When  we  want  to  read  Rabelais  aloud,  even  before  men  (before 
women  it  is  impossible),  we  are  always  in  the  position  of  a  man 
wishing  to  cross  a  vast  open  space  full  of  mud  and  filth :  every 
moment  it  is  necessary  to  take  a  long  stride,  and  to  walk  with- 
out getting  rather  dirty  is  difficult.  Once  a  lady  reproached 
Sterne  for  the  nudities  of  his  "  Tristram  Shandy."  At  the  mo- 
ment a  three-year-old  child  was  playing  on  the  floor  and  ex- 
hibiting himself  in  complete  innocence.  "  Look,"  said  Sterne, 
"  my  book  is  that  three-year-old  child  who  is  rolling  on  the  car- 
pet." But  with  Rabelais  the  child  has  grown  up ;  he  is  a  man, 
a  monk,  a  giant  Gargantua,  Pantagruel,  or  at  any  rate  Panurge, 
and  he  still  conceals  nothing.  Here  there  is  no  possibility  of 
saying  to  the  ladies :  Look  !  And  even  when  we  are  speaking 
in  the  company  of  men  only,  and  are  perfectly  cool-headed,  it  is 
necessary  to  make  a  choice.  I,  too,  shall  choose.  In  M. 
Rabelais's  first  book,  "  Gargantua,"  not  perhaps  the  first  accord- 
ing to  date,  but  which  is  the  most  consistent,  the  most  complete 
in  itself,  with  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  some  admirable 
chapters  are  to  be  found,  neither  too  serious  nor  too  comic, 
where  Rabelais's  great  powers  of  good  sense  are  to  be  seen.  I 
intend  to  speak  of  the  chapters  dealing  with  Gargantua's  edu- 
cation. After  all  the  extravagance  of  the  beginning,  the  birth 
of  Gargantua  by  the  left  ear.  the  marvellous  description  of  his 
layette,  the  first  signs  he  gives  of  his  intelligence,  and  a  certain 
very  nonsensical  answer  he  gives  his  father,  in  which  he  recog- 
nizes with  admiration  his  son's  marvellous  wit,  a  master  is 
given  him,  a  sophist  in  Latin  learning.     Then  follows  a  very 


RABELAIS 


345 


clever  and  striking  satire  on  the  bad  education  of  that  time. 
Gargantua  was  supposed  to  have  been  born  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  and  was  first  subjected  to  the  scholastic 
and  pedantic  education,  full  of  laborious  and  complicated  puerili- 
ties, an  education  which  seemed  to  be  formed  expressly  for  cor- 
rupting good  and  noble  minds.  However,  his  father  Grand- 
gousier  perceived  that  his  son  studied  hard,  and  yet  grew  more 
stupid  every  day.  He  was  greatly  astonished  to  learn  from  one 
of  his  friends,  the  viceroy  of  some  neighboring  country,  that 
any  young  man  who  had  only  studied  for  two  years  under  a  good 
master,  by  means  of  a  new  method  only  just  discovered,  would 
know  more  than  all  the  little  prodigies  of  olden  times,  given  to 
the  care  of  masters  "  whose  knowledge  was  nothing  but  brutish- 
ness."  Gargantua  is  brought  into  the  company  of  the  young 
Endemon,  a  child  of  twelve,  who  addresses  him  with  charm, 
politeness,  and  a  noble  modesty  that  in  no  way  injures  his  facil- 
ity. Gargantua  found  nothing  to  reply  to  all  the  young  page 
so  amiably  and  encouragingly  said  to  him,  "  but  all  the  counte- 
nance he  kept  was  that  he  fell  to  crying  like  a  cow,  and  cast 
down  his  face,  hiding  it  with  his  cap."  The  father  was  griev- 
ously vexed.  In  his  rage  he  would  have  killed  Maitre  Jobelin, 
the  pedant  who  had  furnished  such  a  wretched  education,  but 
he  contented  himself  with  kicking  him  out  of  doors,  and  intrust- 
ing Gargantua  to  the  charge  of  the  tutor  who  had  brought  up 
Endemon  so  successfully,  and  whose  name  was  Ponocrates. 

Here  we  touch  on  one  of  the  parts  of  Rabelais's  book  which 
contains  much  good  sense,  and  up  to  a  certain  point  a  serious 
meaning.  But  I  speak  with  reserve ;  because,  while  recognizing 
the  serious  parts,  it  is  necessary  to  be  careful  not  to  imagine 
and  create  them,  as  so  many  commentators  have  done — a  pro- 
ceeding that  must  give  Rabelais  plenty  to  laugh  at,  if  he  takes 
any  heed  of  us  in  the  shades.  But  in  the  present  instance  the 
meaning  is  not  to  be  doubted.  We  saw  the  young  Gargantua 
given  up  to  the  pedagogues  of  the  old  school,  and  the  sad 
results  of  the  wretched,  methodical,  pedantic,  and  brutalizing 
education,  the  last  legacy  of  the  expiring  Middle  Ages.  Pono- 
crates, on  the  contrary,  is  an  innovation,  a  modem  man,  in 
accord  with  the  true  renaissance.  He  accepts  the  pupil,  takes 
him  away  with  him  to  Paris,  and  sets  himself  to  form  his  man- 
ners and  character. 


340  SAINTE-BEUVE 

And  what  merry  tricks  as  they  go  along,  what  adventures  by 
the  way,  and  on  entering  Paris !  What  a  welcome  Gargantua 
receives  from  the  Parisians,  over  curious  and  always  loafing! 
Then  in  return  he  has  to  pay  his  footing !  Read  all  those  things, 
those  miraculous,  mischievous  students'  tricks,  which  make  ex- 
cellent scenes  of  comedy ;  I  take  refuge  in  the  semi-serious  parts. 

Ponocrates  begins  by  examining  his  pupil ;  he  employs  in  ad- 
vance Montaigne's  method,  who  advises  that  "  you  should  first 
trot  out  "  the  young  mind  before  you,  to  judge  its  pace.  For 
some  time  Ponocrates  allows  the  young  Gargantua  to  do  as  he 
had  been  accustomed,  and  Rabelais  describes  the  routine  of 
idleness,  gluttony,  and  sloth,  the  result  of  a  wrongly  directed 
early  education.  Let  me  briefly  sum  up  the  system.  The 
young  Gargantua  already  conducts  himself  like  one  of  the  most 
ignorant  and  gluttonous  monks  of  that  time,  commencing  his 
day  late,  sleeping  far  into  the  morning,  taking  a  plentiful  break- 
fast, hearing  a  number  of  masses  which  scarcely  fatigue  him, 
entirely  given  up  to  good  Hving,  sleep,  and  idleness.  In  reading 
the  description,  we  thoroughly  understand  Rabelais's  disgust 
for  that  ignoble  life  when  he  was  a  Franciscan ! 

It  was  high  time  to  reform  the  vicious  education ;  but  Pono- 
crates, like  a  wise  man,  did  not  make  the  change  too  sudden, 
"  considering  that  nature  does  not  endure  sudden  changes  with- 
out great  violence."  The  twenty-third  and  twenty-fourth  chap- 
ters of  the  first  book  are  truly  admirable,  and  present  the  sound- 
est and  most  far-reaching  system  of  education  imaginable,  a 
better  contrived  system  than  that  of  the  "  Emile,"  Montaigne- 
like, practical,  formed  for  use,  for  developing  the  whole  man, 
the  physical  as  well  as  the  mental  faculties.  At  every  turn  we 
recognize  the  enlightened  physician,  physiologist,  and  phi- 
losopher. 

Gargantua  rises  at  about  four  in  the  morning;  during  his 
early  toilet  some  chapter  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  was  read  to 
him,  aloud  and  clearly,  in  such  a  way  as  to  direct  his  mind  to 
the  works  and  judgments  of  God  from  the  morning.  A  few 
hygienic  details  follow,  for  the  physician  in  Rabelais  forgets 
nothing.  Afterwards  the  tutor  takes  his  pupil  out,  and  they 
consider  the  face  of  the  sky,  if  it  was  such  as  they  had  observed 
it  the  night  before.  He  is  made  to  note  the  diflPerence  of  posi- 
tion, the  changes  of  the  constellations  and  stars,  for  with  Rabe- 


RABELAIS  347 

lais  the  astronomer  who  had  pubHshed  almanacs  was  not  less 
clever  than  the  doctor,  and  he  considered  no  science,  no  human 
or  physical  knowledge,  irrelevant  to  his  purpose. 

In  regard  to  physical  knowledge  of  the  heavens,  education 
has  advanced  little  since  Rabelais.  Although  Newton  came, 
and  Arago  led  the  way  in  his  lectures  at  the  observatory,  ordi- 
nary instruction  has  not  improved.  We,  who  should  be  ashamed 
not  to  know  geography  and  its  chief  divisions,  need  only  lift  our 
eyes  to  the  sky  to  perceive  that  we  scarcely  know  anything  of  the 
sublime  cosmography.  A  few  evenings  with  a  professor  would 
suffice  to  teach  us.  Ponocrates  would  have  been  ashamed  for 
his  pupil  to  be  ignorant  of  so  majestic  and  ordinary  a  spectacle. 

After  the  lesson  in  the  open  air  came  lessons  indoors,  "  three 
good  hours  of  reading ;"  then  games,  ball,  tennis,  all  that  might 
be  useful  in  "  gallantly  exercising  their  bodies,  as  before  they 
had  done  their  minds."  According  to  Rabelais,  such  combina- 
tion and  accurate  balance  was  what  characterized  real  and  com- 
plete education :  in  every  prescription  you  find  in  him  the 
physician,  the  man  who  understands  the  relation  of  the  physical 
to  the  moral  world,  and  who  in  everything  consults  nature. 

At  table,  at  what  was  then  called  dinner  (and  what  we  call 
luncheon),  he  only  allowed  his  pupil  to  eat  what  was  necessary 
to  appease  "  the  demands  of  the  appetite ;"  he  desired  dinner, 
the  early  meal,  to  be  "  sober  and  frugal,"  reserving  him  a  more 
extensive  and  plentiful  supper.  During  the  morning  meal,  in 
reference  to  the  dishes,  conversation  turned  on  the  virtue,  pro- 
priety, and  nature  of  the  objects,  the  viands,  herbs,  and  roots. 
Passages  on  these  subjects  from  the  ancients  were  talked  of ;  at 
need  books  were  fetched  ;  without  knowing  it,  the  pupil  becomes 
as  learned  as  Pliny,  "  that  in  that  time  there  was  not  a  physician 
that  knew  half  so  much  as  he  did." 

After  the  repast  came  cards,  to  learn  under  that  novel  pretext 
a  thousand  pretty  new  tricks  and  inventions,  all  grounded  upon 
arithmetic  and  numbers.  Thus  the  young  Gargantua,  so  to 
say,  takes  his  mathematical  instruction  while  amusing  himself. 

Digestion  finished,  after  certain  hygienic  tasks  I  pass  over 
in  silence,  but  which  Rabelais  never  left  to  the  imagination,  they 
recommence  study  for  the  second  time,  and  seriously  "  for 
three  hours  or  more."  Afterwards,  about  two  or  three  hours 
after  midday,  they  leave  the  house  in  company  of  Squire  Gym- 


348  SAINTE-BEUVE 

nast,  and  practise  the  art  of  riding  and  gymnastics.  Under  so 
accomplished  a  master,  Gargantua  profited  boldly  and  usefully. 
He  did  not  amuse  himself  by  breaking  his  lance,  "  for  it  is  the 
greatest  foolishness  in  the  world,"  observes  Rabelais,  "  to  say : 
'  I  have  broken  ten  lances  at  tilts  or  in  fight ;'  a  carpenter  can  do 
even  as  much ;  but  it  is  a  glorious  and  praiseworthy  action  with 
one  lance  to  break  and  overthrow  ten  of  his  enemies."  Do  you 
not  already  perceive  how  good-sense  is  substituted  for  a  false 
point  of  honor,  and  how  Rabelais,  who  does  not  believe  in  vain- 
glory and  swaggering,  wants  to  reform  the  last  of  the  Bayards  ? 
They  were  only  too  well  reformed. 

In  describing  the  various  exercises  of  riding,  hunting,  wres- 
tling, and  swimming,  Rabelais  amused  himself.  Master  Gym- 
nast's feats  of  strength  became,  under  his  pen,  feats  of  strength 
of  language.  French  prose  also  performed  gymnastics,  and 
the  style  became  astounding  in  its  copiousness,  freedom,  supple- 
ness, suitability,  and  animation.  Never  before  had  language 
had  such  a  glorious  time  of  it. 

It  is,  in  fact,  an  admirable  picture  of  an  ideal  education,  and, 
reduced  to  proportions  rather  less  than  those  of  the  giant  Gar- 
gantua, almost  all  of  it  is  serious.  There  is  excess,  exaggera- 
tion, assuredly,  in  the  whole ;  but  it  is  an  exaggeration  easily 
reduced  to  the  truth  and  the  correct  sense  of  human  nature. 
The  new  character  of  the  education  lies  in  the  combination  of 
play  and  study,  in  learning  things  by  making  use  of  them,  in 
putting  books  and  the  things  of  life  side  by  side,  theory  and 
practice,  body  and  mind,  g}^mnastics  and  music,  as  with  the 
Greeks,  without,  however,  modelling  ourselves  on  the  past,  but 
having  regard  continually  to  the  present  and  future. 

If  the  weather  was  rainy,  the  employment  of  the  time  was 
different,  and  the  diet  also  varied.  Taking  less  exercise  in  the 
open  air  on  those  days,  he  feeds  more  soberly.  On  those  days 
the  workshops  and  factories  of  different  artificers,  lapidaries, 
goldsmiths,  alchemists,  money-coiners,  watchmakers,  printers, 
not  omitting  the  casting  of  great  ordnance,  then  quite  new,  are 
more  particularly  visited,  and  everywhere  they  give  them  wine ; 
they  learn  the  different  industries.  It  is  to  be  remarked  that 
Rabelais  wants  his  royal  pupil  to  examine  and  become  ac- 
f|uaintcd  with  all  useful  arts,  every  modern  invention,  so  that 
he  may  never  find  himself  hindered  or  at  a  loss,  like  so  many 


RABELAIS  349 

poor  learned  men  who  know  nothing  but  books.  An  education 
a  la  Pofwcratcs  reconciled  the  ancient  and  modern  system.  Per- 
rault,  Colbert's  worthy  clerk,  would  find  nothing  further  to  de- 
sire there,  and  Madame  Dacier,  the  worshipper  of  Homer, 
would  discover  there  all  she  liked  best. 

In  the  young  Gargantua's  course  of  education  and  study  we 
have  the  first  plan  of  what  Montaigne,  Charrpn,  in  places  and 
parts  the  Port  Royal  School,  the  Christian  school  which  did  not 
recognize  itself  so  strong  in  the  same  path  as  Rabelais,  strange 
precursor!  set  forth  with  greater  seriousness,  but  not  with 
more  good  sense.  We  have  in  advance  at  one  glance,  and  with 
brilliant  genius,  what  Rousseau  will  expound  later  in  "  Emile," 
reducing  it  to  a  system,  and  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre  in  his 
"  Studies  of  Nature,"  rendering  it  vapid. 

Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre,  melancholy  and  a  dreamer  by 
choice,  whose  chaste  and  ideal  genius  seems  to  have  little  in  com- 
mon with  Rabelais's  mind,  comprehended  him  marvellously  on 
the  serious  side  we  have  been  describing,  and  in  a  memorable 
passage,  not  altogether  chimerical,  although  giving  a  too  uni- 
form explanation,  and  too  much  embellished,  said : 

"  It  was  all  up  with  the  happiness  of  nations,  and  even  of 
religion,  when  two  men  of  letters,  Rabelais  and  Miguel  Cer- 
vantes, arose,  one  in  France,  the  other  in  Spain,  and  shook  the 
power  of  the  monasteries  and  of  chivalry.  To  overturn  the  two 
giants,  they  made  use  of  no  arms,  but  ridicule,  the  natural  an- 
tithesis to  human  terror.  [What  more  exact  and  happy  ex- 
planation could  you  have  ?]  Like  children,  the  people  laughed, 
and  were  reassured.  The  only  incentives  to  happiness  they 
possessed  were  those  their  princes  liked  to  give  them,  had  their 
princes  been  capable  of  giving  them  any.  '  Telemachus  '  ap- 
peared, and  the  book  reminded  Europe  of  the  harmonies  of 
nature.     It  produced  a  great  revolution  in  politics.     .     .     ." 

I  do  not  dare  to  accept  altogether  the  fashion  of  explaining 
modern  history  by  ascribing  its  chief  results  to  two  or  three 
names,  to  two  or  three  books.  In  the  intervals  of  "  Gargantua," 
"  Don  Quixote,"  and  "  Telemachus  "  more  things  than  seem  to 
be  dreamed  of  in  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre's  philosophy  hap- 
pened. There  is  truth,  however,  in  regarding  Rabelais,  the  un- 
trammelled jester,  as  having,  at  the  end  of  the  terrors  of  the 
Middle  Ages  and  the  labyrinth  of  scholasticism,  consoled  and 
reassured  the  human  race. 


35©  SAINTE-BEUVE 

The  system  of  education  I  admire  in  Rabelais,  Montaigne, 
Charron,  and  some  of  their  followers,  had  a  great  opportunity, 
when  it  was  a  question  of  emancipating  the  young,  of  freeing 
them  from  servile  and  oppressive  methods,  and  of  leading  their 
minds  into  natural  paths. 

To  realize  that  programme,  even  after  three  centuries,  much 
progress  has  yet  to  be  made.  We  should,  however,  bear  in 
mind  the  new  and,  above  all,  pleasant  modes  of  imparting 
knowledge  to  children  was  by  means  of  a  preceptor  or  tutor  for 
each,  and  took  no  account  of  the  inherent  difficulties  of  public 
education  nor  of  those  difficulties  which  depend  on  the  condi- 
tion of  society.  Then,  and  in  proportion  as  we  advance  in  life, 
what  fatigues,  struggles,  and  pains  we  have  to  endure!  It  is 
no  bad  thing  to  have  become  early  accustomed  to  them  by  edu- 
cation, and  to  have  felt  the  consequences  of  things  while  young. 
An  eighteenth-century  philosopher,  wiser  than  Rousseau 
(Galiani),  recommends  two  particular  aims  in  education:  to 
teach  children  to  support  injustice,  and  to  endure  ennui. 

But  Rabelais's  purpose  was  merely  to  advance  certain  sensi- 
ble and  appropriate  notions  in  a  jest :  do  not  demand  more  of 
him.  His  book  contains  everything,  and  each  admirer  can  pride 
himself  on  discovering  in  it  what  best  suits  his  own  mind.  But 
he  also  finds  many  comic,  unreservedly  diverting  parts  to  justify 
to  all  Rabelais's  renown  and  glory.  The  rest  is  disputable, 
equivocal,  liable  to  controversy  and  commentary.  To  those 
parts  candid  readers  will  confess  they  find  a  difficulty  in  paying 
attention  and  in  taking  pleasure  in  them.  What  is  indisputably 
admirable  is  the  form  of  the  language,  the  fulness  and  richness 
of  the  expressions,  the  abundant  and  inexhaustible  flow  of  the 
eloquence.  His  French,  in  spite  of  his  scoffs  at  the  "  latiniz- 
ings  "  and  "  graecizings  "  of  the  time,  is  full  of,  almost  crammed 
with,  the  ancient  languages ;  but  it  is  so  from  a  kind  of  interior 
nourishment ;  it  does  not  seem  strange  in  him,  and  in  his  mouth 
everything  has  the  ease  of  naturalness,  familiarity,  and  genius. 
With  him,  as  with  Aristophanes,  although  more  rarely,  pure, 
charming,  lucid,  and  truly  poetic  passages  may  be  distinguished. 
Here,  for  example,  is  one  of  those  passages,  full  of  grace  and 
beauty.  There  is  talk  of  studies  and  of  the  Muses  who  turn 
aside  from  love.  In  a  dialogue  between  Venus  and  Cupid, 
Lucian  made  the  goddess  ask  her  son  why  he  so  greatly  re- 


RABELAIS  351 

spected  the  Muses,  and  the  boy  rephed  much  as  Rabelais 
summed  it  up,  expanded  and  embelUshed  it  in  the  following 
words : 

"  I  remember  reading  that  Cupid,  when  asked  sometimes  by 
his  mother  why  he  did  not  attack  the  Muses,  replied  that  he 
found  them  so  beautiful,  so  innocent,  so  virtuous,  so  modest, 
and  continually  employed,  one  in  contemplating  the  stars,  an- 
other in  reckoning  numbers,  another  in  measuring  geometrical 
bodies,  another  in  rhetorical  invention,  another  in  poetical  com- 
position, another  in  the  disposition  of  music,  that,  approaching 
them,  he  unbent  his  bow,  closed  his  case  of  arrows,  and  extin- 
guished his  torch  for  shame  and  fear  of  harming  them.  Then 
he  tore  the  bandage  from  his  eyes,  in  order  to  see  them  more 
easily  and  to  listen  to  their  charming  songs  and  poetic  odes. 
It  gave  him  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world.  So  much  so  he 
was  often  conscious  of  feeling  quite  enchanted  by  their  beauty 
and  grace,  and  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  sweet  sounds  of  their 
harmony." 

That  is  Rabelais  when  he  remembered  Lucian,  or  rather  Plato. 

No  author  is  more  admired  than  Rabelais;  but  he  is  wor- 
shipped in  two  ways,  and  by  two  races,  as  it  were,  very  different 
in  intelligence  and  conduct.  Some  admire  him  kss  than  they 
enjoy  him ;  they  read  him,  understand  him  where  they  can,  and 
console  themselves  for  what  they  do  not  understand  with  the 
exquisite  pieces  they  extract  like  marrow  from  a  bone  and  take 
delight  in.  That  is  Montaigne's  way  of  admiring  Rabelais, 
who  ranks  him  among  books  "  merely  amusing  " ;  it  is  the  way 
of  the  whole  of  the  seventeenth  century,  of  Racine  and  La 
Fontaine,  who  naively  asked  a  doctor  who  was  speaking  to  him 
of  St.  Augustine  if  that  great  saint  had  as  much  wit  as  Rabelais. 
Another  method  of  admiring  Rabelais  is  in  desiring  to  be  a 
man  of  his  party,  of  his  set,  to  draw  him  to  one  side,  to  prove 
him,  as  Ginguene  did  in  a  pamphlet,  one  of  the  harbingers  and 
apostles  of  the  revolution  of  1789,  and  of  those  which  are  still 
to  come.  The  latter  way,  which  prides  itself  on  being  more 
philosophical  and  logical,  seems  to  me  much  less  Rabelaisian. 

The  young  author  of  the  pamphlet  I  mentioned  at  the  be- 
ginning, M.  Eugene  Noel,  somewhat  favors  the  latter  method, 
applying  it,  however,  according  to  the  ideas  and  views  of  our 
time — that  is  to  say,  in  still  further  exaggerating  it.     He  thus 


35*  SAINTE-BEUVE 

systematically  spoils  an  otherwise  valuable  study,  which  implies 
a  great  deal  of  reading,  and  a  fairly  intimate  knowledge  of  his 
subject.  M.  Michelet,  carrying  on  at  a  distance  of  three  cen- 
turies the  war  against  mediaeval  times,  a  period,  in  his  belief, 
still  fraught  with  danger  to  us,  once  began  one  of  his  lectures 
at  the  College  de  France  in  these  words :  "  God  resembles  a 
mother  who  wishes  her  children  to  be  strong  and  proud,  and  to 
oppose  her ;  his  favorites  also  are  the  strong,  indomitable  nat- 
ures which  wrestle  with  him  like  Jacob,  the  strongest  and  most 
cunning  of  shepherds.  Voltaire  and  Rabelais  are  his  chosen 
elect."  M.  Michelet's  Rabelais,  who  wrestles  with  God  to 
give  him  pleasure,  is  a  little  like  M.  Eugene  Noel's  Rabelais. 
"  He  rescued,"  says  the  biographer,  "  the  men  of  his  time  from 
the  darkness  and  terrible  fasts  of  the  old  world.  .  .  .  His 
book,  almost  paternal,  answers  the  cry  of  universal  thirst  of  the 
sixteenth  century :  '  Drink  for  the  people ! '  .  .  .  The  grea<" 
river  of  the  papal  church  of  which  the  Middle  Ages  had  drunk 
for  so  long  was  exhausted :  Drink !  drink !  was  the  universal 
cry  ;  that  was  also  Gargantua's  first  word."  That  is  an  allegori- 
cal thirst  for  a  new  explanation  of  which  commentators  have  not 
yet  thought.  Every  age  has  its  hobby ;  and  his,  which  does  not 
jest,  has  the  humanitarian  craze,  and  thinks  to  do  great  honor 
to  Rabelais  by  attributing  it  to  him. 

I  fancy  when  we  try  to  explain  Rabelais  according  to  our  own 
ideas,  he  permits  it  merely  to  have  a  laugh  over  it.  He  might 
well  be  astonished  to  find  that  under  legendary  form  he  is  an 
apostle,  saint,  what  shall  I  say?  a  future  Christ  of  the  Evangel. 
Speaking  of  the  manner  in  which  he  performed  his  duties  as 
priest  at  Meudon,  and  persisting  in  the  symbolical  mode  of  ex- 
planation, the  new  biographer  writes : 

"  How  I  should  have  liked  to  hear  him !  How  I  should  have 
liked  on  a  fine  Easter  day  to  assist  him  at  his  mass,  to  contem- 
plate his  majestic  and  serene  face,  while,  hearing  sung  around 
him,  '  Quemadmodum  desiderat  ccrvtis  ad  fontcs  aquarmn,'  he 
remembered  with  a  divine  smile  of  satisfaction  the  infinite  thirs' 
of  his  Pantagruel !  " 

In  concluding,  let  us  return  to  common  sense  and  modera 
tion ;  Voltaire  will  help  us.     When  young  he  cared  very  littU 
for  Rabelais.     He  relates  how  one  day  the  regent,  the  Due 
d'Orleans,  leaving  the  opera  in  conversation  with  him,  began 


RABELAIS  353 

a  great  eulogy  of  Rabelais.  "  I  took  him  for  a  prince  in  bad 
company,"  he  said,  "  whose  taste  was  spoiled.  At  that  time  I 
had  a  supreme  contempt  for  Rabelais."  In  his  "  Philosophical 
Letters  "  he  spoke  very  slightingly  of  him,  putting  him  below 
Swift,  which  is  not  just.  "  He  is  a  drunken  philosopher,"  he 
concluded,  "  who  only  wrote  when  he  was  drunk."  But  five- 
and-twenty  years  later,  in  writing  to  Madame  du  Deffand,  he 
made  him  reparation. 

"  After  Clarissa  Harlowe,  I  read  over  again  some  chapters  of 
Rabelais,  such  as  the  fight  of  Friar  John  des  Entommeures  and 
Picrochole's  council  of  war.  I  know  them,  indeed,  almost  by 
heart,  but  I  read  them  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  because  they 
are  the  most  vivid  descriptions  in  the  world.  It  is  not  that  I 
regard  Rabelais  as  equal  to  Horace.  .  .  .  Rabelais,  when 
he  is  in  good  humor,  is  the  best  of  good  buffoons :  two  of  the 
craft  are  not  wanted  in  a  nation,  but  there  must  be  one.  I  re- 
pent that  I  formerly  spoke  ill  of  him." 

Yes,  Rabelais  is  a  buffoon,  but  a  unique  buffoon,  a  Homeric 
buffoon !  Voltaire's  latest  opinion  will  remain  that  of  all  men 
of  sense  and  taste,  of  those  who  do  not  possess  a  decided  in- 
clination and  particular  predilection  for  Rabelais.  But  for  the 
rest,  for  the  true  amateur,  for  the  real  pantagruelist  devotees, 
Rabelais  is  something  very  different.  At  the  bottom  of  Master 
Frangois's  cask,  even  in  the  dregs,  there  is  a  flavor  not  to  be 
explained,  that  they  prefer  to  everything.  If  we  are  permitted 
to  have  an  opinion  on  so  serious  a  subject,  we  believe  that  what 
we  most  enjoy  in  him  in  his  best  places  with  a  certain  mystery 
of  debauch,  is  to  be  found  in  the  same  quality  and  without  con- 
cealment in  Moliere. 

I  have  sometimes  asked  myself  what  Moliere,  learned,  a 
physician,  enveloped  in  Greek  and  Latin,  would  have  been  like. 
Moliere,  physician  (imagine  such  a  miracle)  and  priest  after 
having  been  a  monk;  Moliere,  born  at  a  period  when  every 
independent  thinker  had  to  preserve  himself  from  the  stakes  of 
Geneva  as  from  those  of  the  Sorbonne;  Moliere,  without  a 
theatre,  and  forced  to  hide  his  splendid  comedy  in  torrents  of 
absurdities,  burlesque  rhapsodies,  and  drunken  gossip,  to  safe- 
guard, at  every  hour,  the  jest  which  touches  society  to  the 
quick,  by  laughing  without  cause,  and  it  seems  to  me  we  should 

get  something  very  like  Rabelais.     However,  he  will  always 

P— Vol.  GO 


354  SAINTE-BEUVE 

possess  in  himself  the  singular  attraction  which  attaches  lis 
to  a  difficulty  overcome,  to  a  freemasonry  both  bacchic  and 
learned,  of  which,  in  loving  him,  we  feel  ourselves  a  part. 
In  a  word,  there  is  in  pure  pantagruelism  an  air  of  initiation 
iwhich  always  pleases  us. 


BALZAC 

A  CAREFUL  study  of  the  famous  novelist  who  has  just 
been  taken  from  us,  and  whose  sudden  loss  has  excited 
universal  interest,  would  require  a  whole  work,  and 
the  time  for  that,  I  think,  has  not  yet  come.  Those  sorts  of 
moral  autopsies  cannot  be  made  over  a  freshly  dug  grave,  es- 
pecially when  he  who  has  been  laid  in  it  was  full  of  strength 
and  fertility,  and  seemed  still  full  of  future  works  and  days. 
All  that  is  possible  and  fitting  in  respect  of  a  great  contempo- 
rary renown  at  the  moment  death  lays  it  low,  is  to  point  out 
by  means  of  a  few  clear-cut  lines  the  merits,  the  varied  skill, 
the  delicate  and  powerful  attraction,  by  which  it  charmed  its 
epoch  and  acquired  influence  over  it.  I  shall  attempt  to  do 
this  in  respect  to  Balzac,  with  a  feeling  free  from  all  personal 
recollection,^  and  in  a  spirit  where  criticism  only  reserves  to 
itself  some  few  rights. 

Balzac  was  a  painter  of  the  manners  of  this  age,  and  he  was 
the  most  original,  the  most  individual  and  penetrating  of  them 
all.  From  the  first  he  regarded  the  nineteenth  century  as  his 
subject  and  material,  he  eagerly  threw  himself  into  it,  and 
never  left  it.  Society  is  like  a  woman — she  desires  a  painter, 
a  painter  all  to  herself :  he  was  this ;  no  tradition  was  in  his 
painting  of  it ;  he  applied  the  methods  and  artifices  of  the  brush 
to  the  use  of  the  ambitious  and  coquettish  society,  anxious 
only  to  date  from  itself,  and  to  resemble  no  other ;  for  that  rea- 
son it  has  had  much  more  affection  for  him.  Born  in  1799, 
he  had  fifteen  years  to  the  fall  of  the  Empire ;  he  knew  and  felt 
the  imperial  age  with  the  clear-sightedness  and  quick  penetra- 
tion belonging  to  childhood ;  reflection  will  perfect  it  later  on, 
but  nothing  will  equal  its  youthful  lucidity.     Someone  of  the 

1  See  in  M.  de  Balzac's  "  Revue  Paris-  others  remember  it.    Such  opinions  only 

ienne  "  of   August  ;;s,    1840,   the  article  reflect  in  the  future  on  those  who  held 

which  concerns  me.     If  1  have  forgot-  them, 
ten  it,  it  is  certain  I  do  not  doubt  that 

35S 


356  SAINTE-BEUVE 

same  period  as  himself  said :  "  From  my  childhood  I  saw  into 
things  with  a  sensibility  that  pierced  my  heart  like  a  sharp 
blade  at  every  moment."  He  might  have  said  the  same  him- 
self. The  impressions  of  childhood,  put  later  into  criticisms 
and  pictures,  make  themselves  felt  by  a  strange  depth  of  emo- 
tion, and  are  precisely  what  give  delicacy  and  life.  A  young 
man  under  the  Restoration,  he  passed  through  it;  he  saw  it 
wholly  from  what  is  perhaps  the  best  position  for  an  observing 
artist  to  see  things,  from  below,  in  the  crowd,  in  suffering  and 
struggle,  with  the  immense  covetousness  of  genius  and  nat- 
ure, which  causes  forbidden  things  to  be  divined,  imagined, 
and  penetrated  a  thousand  times  before  they  are  obtained  and 
known ;  he  felt  the  Restoration  like  a  lover.  He  began  to  ac- 
quire reputation  at  the  same  time  as  the  new  regime,  set  on 
foot  in  July,  1830,  was  established.  That  regime  he  saw  from 
the  same  plane  and  even  from  a  little  above  it ;  he  criticized  it 
frankly,  he  painted  it  enchantingly  in  its  most  striking  types 
and  commonplace  forms.  Thus  the  three  very  diverse  epochs 
of  physiognomy  which  form  the  century,  now  in  its  middle, 
were  all  known  and  lived  through  by  Balzac,  and  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point  his  work  is  the  reflection  of  them.  Who,  for  in- 
stance, has  described  better  than  he  the  old  men  and  the  beauti- 
ful women  of  the  Empire?  Who  has  more  delightfully  hit  off 
the  duchesses  and  countesses  of  the  end  of  the  Restoration, 
the  women  of  thirty,  who,  already  on  the  spot,  were  awaiting 
their  painter  with  a  vague  anxiety,  so  that  when  he  and  they 
met  there  was  a  sort  of  magnetic  thrill  of  recognition  ?  Who, 
in  fact,  has  better  understood  and  described  in  all  its  fulness 
the  lower  middle  class  triumphant  under  the  dynasty  of  July, 
the  class  ever  immortal  and  already  gone,  alas !  of  the  Birot- 
teaus  and  Crevels? 

There  was  a  vast  field,  and  it  must  be  said  M.  Balzac  soon 
made  it  his  own  in  all  its  extent ;  he  traversed  and  penetrated 
it  in  every  sense,  and  found  it  too  narrow  for  his  valor  and 
ardor.  Not  content  with  observing  and  guessing,  he  very 
often  invented  and  dreamed.  However  it  may  be  with  his 
dreams,  it  was  at  first  by  his  delicate  and  keen  observation  that 
he  won  the  heart  of  the  aristocratic  society  to  which  he  as- 
pired. The  first  picked  troops  he  introduced  into  the  fortress 
were   "  The  Woman  of  Thirty,"    "  The  Deserted  Woman," 


BALZAC  357 

"  The  Grenadier,"  and  he  was  soon  master  of  the  citadel.  The 
woman  of  thirty  is  not  altogether  an  unexpected  creation. 
Since  civilized  society  has  existed,  women  of  that  age  have 
held  a  large,  perhaps  the  chief  place  in  it.  In  the  eighteenth 
century,  which  had  time  to  subtilize  everything,  a  ball  was 
given  at  court  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  1763,  a  ball  which  was 
called  "  The  Mothers'  Ball " ;  the  young  girls,  to  speak  the 
truth,  were  lookers-on,  and  only  women  of  thirty  danced.  A 
pretty  song  was  composed  on  the  subject,  of  which  the  refrain 
was,  "  Girls  of  fifteen,  let  your  mothers  dance !  "  It  is  seen 
how  the  eighteenth  century  was  doing  something  towards  the 
real  rehabilitation  of  this  matter  which  lasted  only  one  even- 
ing. But  the  nineteenth  century  was  to  improve  on  it,  and 
the  theory  of  the  woman  of  thirty,  with  all  her  advantages, 
superiority,  and  definite  perfection,  only  dates  from  the  pres- 
ent time.  Balzac  is  the  inventor  of  it,  and  it  is  one  of  his  most 
real  discoveries  in  the  order  of  famiHar  novels.  The  key  of 
his  enormous  success  was  wholly  in  that  early  little  master- 
piece.^ Afterwards  women  forgave  him  many  things  and  al- 
ways believed  his  word,  because  he  had  guessed  so  correctly 
the  first  time. 

However  rapid  and  great  was  Balzac's  success  in  France,  it 
was  perhaps  even  greater  and  less  contested  in  Europe.  The 
details  that  could  be  given  in  respect  of  it  would  seem  fabulous, 
and  yet  would  be  only  true.  Yes,  Balzac  described  the  man- 
ners of  his  time,  and  his  success  is  one  of  the  most  curious 
pictures  of  it.  It  was  already  more  than  two  centuries  since, 
in  1642,  Honore  d'Urfe  (the  author  of  the  famous  novel  of 
"  Astree  "),  who  lived  in  Piedmont,  received  a  most  serious 
letter  addressed  to  him  by  twenty-nine  princes  and  princesses 
and  nineteen  noblemen  and  noble  ladies  of  Germany.  Those 
persons  informed  him  that  they  had  assumed  the  names  of  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  "  Astree,"  and  had  formed  themselves 
into  an  "  Academy  of  true  lovers ;  "  they  earnestly  entreated 
him  to  continue  the  work.  What  happened  to  D'Urfe  oc- 
curred in  exactly  the  same  manner  to  Balzac.  There  vras  a 
time  when,  at  Venice  for  instance,  the  society  gathered  there 
thought  of  assuming  the  names  of  his  chief  characters  and  of 

2  Only  read   it,   I  beg  of  you,   in  the  early    editions.     The   author    spoiled    it 
for  me  in  enlarging  it  afterwards. 


35S  SAINTE-BEUVE 

playing  their  parts.  During  the  whole  of  one  season  only 
Rastignacs,  Duchesses  of  Langeais  and  Manfrigneuse,  were 
seen ;  and  we  are  assured  that  more  than  one  among  the  actors 
and  actresses  in  that  comedy  of  society  were  anxious  actually 
to  go  through  with  their  parts.  Such  is  usually  the  case  with 
the  reciprocal  influences  between  the  painter  and  his  models: 
the  novelist  begins,  depicts  it  to  the  life ;  exaggerates  it  a  lit- 
tle; society  make  it  a  point  of  honor  and  carries  it  out;  and 
it  is  thus  that  what  at  first  appeared  an  exaggeration  ends  by 
being  only  the  truth. 

What  I  said  of  Venice  occurred  in  different  degrees  in  other 
places.  In  Hungary,  Poland,  Russia,  Balzac's  novels  became 
the  law.  At  this  distance,  the  slightly  fantastic  portions 
mingled  with  reality  which,  seen  close,  prevented  a  perfect 
success  with  difficult  minds,  have  disappeared,  and  form  an 
extra  attraction.  For  instance,  the  costly  and  strange  furni- 
ture where  he  heaped  up  the  masterpieces  of  twenty  countries 
and  twenty  epochs  became  afterwards  a  reality ;  what  seemed 
to  us  the  dream  of  an  artistic  millionaire  was  copied  exactly. 
People  furnished  a  la  Balzac.  How  could  the  artist  remain 
insensible  and  deaf  to  the  thousand  echoes  of  celebrity,  and 
not  hear  in  it  the  accents  of  fame? 

He  believed  in  it,  and  the  sentiment  of  a  certainly  lofty  am- 
bition made  him  draw  from  his  strong  and  fertile  organization 
all  the  resources  and  productions  it  contained.  Balzac  had 
the  body  of  an  athlete  and  the  soul  of  an  artist  in  love  with 
fame;  less  would  not  have  sufficed  for  his  great  task.  It  is 
only  in  our  time  that  we  have  seen  vigorous  and  herculean 
organizations  lay  themselves  in  some  sense  under  the  neces- 
sity of  deriving  from  themselves  all  they  could  produce,  and 
carry  on  the  difficult  wager  for  twenty  years.  When  we  read 
Racine,  Voltaire,  Montesquieu,  it  does  not  particularly  occur 
to  us  to  inquire  if  they  were  robust  or  not  in  frame,  and  of 
strong  physical  organization.  Buffon  was  an  athlete,  but  his 
style  does  not  show  it.  The  authors  of  the  more  or  less  classi- 
cal ages  only  wrote  with  their  thought,  with  their  higher  and 
intellectual  part,  with  the  essence  of  their  being.  Now,  as  a 
consequence  of  the  enormous  work  the  writer  imposes  on  him- 
self, and  which  society  imposes  on  him  at  short  date,  as  a  con- 
sequence of  the  necessity  in  which  lie  finds  himself  of  striking 


BALZAC  359 

rapidly  and  forcibly,  he  has  not  time  to  be  platonic  and  deli- 
cate. The  writer's  person  and  whole  organization  are  enlisted 
and  stand  confessed  in  his  works;  he  does  not  write  them 
only  with  his  pure  thought,  but  with  his  blood  and  muscle.  A 
writer's  physiology  and  hygiene  have  become  one  of  the  in- 
dispensable chapters  in  making  an  analysis  of  his  genius. 

Balzac  prided  himself  on  being  a  physiologist,  and  he  cer- 
tainly was  one,  although  with  less  rigor  and  exactness  than  he 
imagined ;  but  physical  nature,  his  and  that  of  others,  plays  a 
great  part,  and  continually  reveals  itself  in  his  descriptions  of 
morals.  I  do  not  reproach  him ;  it  is  a  feature  which  affects 
and  characterizes  all  the  descriptive  literature  of  the  present 
time.  One  day  M.  Villemain,  then  very  young,  read  to  Sieyes 
his  "  Eulogy  of  Montaigne,"  the  delightful  eulogy,  the  first 
he  wrote,  full  of  charm  and  sweetness.  When  in  his  reading 
he  reached  the  passage  where  he  said — "  but  I  feared  in  read- 
ing Rousseau,  to  let  my  eyes  rest  too  long  on  those  guilty 
weaknesses  from  which  we  ought  always  to  keep  our  dis- 
tance."—Sieyes  interrupted  him,  saying,  "  But  no,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  approach  them  in  order  to  study  them  at  closer  quar- 
ters." The  physiologist,  curious  in  everything,  comes  in  the 
way  of  the  man  of  letters  who  desires  taste  above  all.  Shall  I 
confess  it?     I  am  like  Sieyes. 

That  is  also  saying  I  am  a  little  like  Balzac.  But  I  hold 
back,  however.  I  dwell  on  two  points.  I  like  his  style  in  the 
finer  parts — the  efflorescence  (I  cannot  find  another  word)  by 
which  he  gives  the  feeling  of  life  to  everything,  and  makes  the 
page  itself  thrill.  But  I  cannot  accept,  under  the  cover  of 
physiology,  the  continual  abuse  of  that  quality,  the  style  so 
often  unsteady  and  dissolvent,  enervated,  rosy  and  streaked 
with  all  colors,  the  style  of  a  delicious  corruption ;  Asiatic,  as 
our  masters  said  ;  in  places  more  interrupted  and  more  softened 
than  the  body  of  an  ancient  mime.  From  the  midst  of  the 
scenes  he  describes  does  not  Petronius  somewhere  regret  what 
he  calls  oratio  pudica,  the  modest  style  which  does  not  abandon 
itself  to  the  fluidity  of  every  movement? 

Another  point  on  which  I  dwell  in  Balzac  as  physiologist 
and  anatomist,  is  that  he  at  least  imagined  as  much  as  he  ob- 
served. A  fine  anatomist  morally,  he  certainly  discovered  new 
veins ;  he  found,  and  as  it  were  injected,  lymph  ducts,  till  then 


3^0  SAINTE-BEUVE 

unperceived,  and  he  also  invented  them.  There  is  a  point  in 
his  analysis  when  the  real  and  actual  plexus  ends  and  the  il- 
lusory plexus  begins,  and  he  does  not  distinguish  between  the 
two.  The  greater  part  of  his  readers,  especially  of  his  lady 
readers,  confused  them  as  he  did.  This  is  not  the  place  to 
insist  on  those  points  of  separation.  But  it  is  known  that 
Balzac  had  an  avowed  weakness  for  the  Swedenborgs,  Van 
Helmonts,  Mesmers,  Saint-Germains,  and  Cagliostros  of  all 
sorts — that  is  to  say,  he  was  subject  to  illusion.  In  short,  to 
carry  out  my  physical  and  anatomical  metaphor,  I  shall  say, 
when  he  holds  the  carotid  artery  of  his  subject,  he  injects  it  at 
bottom  with  firmness  and  vigor;  but  when  he  is  at  fault  he 
injects  all  the  same,  and  always  produces,  creating,  without 
quite  perceiving  it,  an  imaginary  net-work. 

Balzac  pretended  to  knowledge,  but  what  he  really  possessed 
was  a  sort  of  physiological  intuition.  M.  Chasles  said  excel- 
lently :  "  It  has  been  repeated  to  excess  that  Balzac  was  an 
observer,  an  analyst ;  he  was  for  good  and  all  a  seer."  What 
he  did  not  see  at  a  first  glance  he  generally  lacked ;  reflection 
did  not  give  it  him.  But  what  things  he  could  see  and  take  in 
at  a  single  glance!  He  came,  he  talked  with  you;  he,  so 
wrapped  up  in  his  work,  and  apparently  so  full  of  himself,  knew 
how  to  ask  questions  to  advantage,  how  to  listen;  but  even 
when  he  had  not  listened,  when  he  seemed  to  have  been  full 
only  of  himself  and  his  own  idea,  he  ended  by  carrying  away, 
absorbing  all  he  wanted  to  know,  and  he  astonished  you  later 
by  describing  it.  i 

I  said  that  he  was  as  it  were  wrapped  up  in  his  work ;  in 
truth,  from  his  youth,  he  never  came  out  of  it,  he  lived  in  it. 
The  society  he  had  partly  observed,  partly  created  in  every 
sense,  the  characters  of  every  class  and  kind  that  he  had  en- 
dowed with  life  were  confused  by  him  with  real  society  and 
people  who  were  scarcely  more  than  a  weak  copy  of  his  own. 
He  saw  them,  talked  to  them,  quoted  them  like  people  both 
you  and  he  were  familiar  with ;  he  had  so  powerfully  and 
clearly  formed  them  of  flesh  and  blood  that,  once  realized, 
both  they  and  he  were  never  more  parted :  all  the  characters 
surrounded  him,  and  in  moments  of  enthusiasm  began  to  circle 
round  him  and  to  hurry  him  into  the  immense  rounds  of  the 
human  comedy ;  it  makes  us  a  little  giddy  even  to  look  at  in 
passing,  and  made  its  author  so  before  us. 


BALZAC 


361 


Balzac's  particular  power  requires  definitionj  it  was  that  of 
a  rich,  copious,  opulent  nature,  full  of  ideas,  types,  and  inven- 
tions ;  a  nature  that  repeats  unceasingly  and  is  never  tired. 
It  was  that  power  he  possessed,  and  not  the  other,  which  is 
doubtless  the  true  strength ;  power  that  governs  and  rules  a 
work,  and  acts  so  that  the  artist  is  above  it  as  he  is  above  his 
creation.  It  might  be  said  of  him  that  he  was  the  prey  of  his 
work,  and  his  talent  often  carries  him  along  like  a  chariot 
drawn  by  four  horses.  I  do  not  ask  that  a  man  should  be 
exactly  like  Goethe,  and  should  always  lift  his  marble  brow 
above  the  fiery  cloud,  but  Balzac  (and  he  has  said  so)  desired 
the  artist  to  precipitate  himself  headlong  into  his  work,  like 
Curtius  into  the  gulf.  A  genius  of  that  sort  affords  much  ani- 
mation and  passion,  but  also  danger  and  a  great  deal  of  smoke. 

To  set  forth  his  real  literary  theory  we  need  only  borrow  his 
own  words ;  if,  for  instance,  I  take  **  The  Poor  Relation,"  his 
last  and  one  of  his  most  powerful  novels,  published  in  this 
paper,^  I  find,  in  the  instance  of  the  Polish  artist,  Wenceslas 
Steinbock,  the  favorite  ideas  and  all  the  secrets — if  he  could 
be  said  to  have  secrets — of  the  author.  According  to  him, 
"  a  great  artist  nowadays  is  a  prince  without  a  title ;  he  is  fame 
and  fortune."  But  the  fame  is  not  gained  either  by  amusing 
one's  self  or  by  dreaming ;  it  is  the  reward  of  persevering  labor 
and  unceasing  ardor.  "  You  have  ideas  in  your  brain  ?  A 
fine  thing!  I  also  have  ideas.  .  .  .  But  where's  the  use  of 
what  may  be  in  our  minds  if  we  derive  no  advantage  from  it?  " 
That  is  what  he  thought,  and  he  never  spared  himself  in  the 
relentless  labor  of  execution.  "  To  imagine,"  he  said,  "  is  to 
enjoy,  to  smoke  enchanted  cigarettes;  but  without  execution 
everything  vanishes  as  a  dream,  as  smoke."  "  Constant 
labor,"  he  said  again,  "  is  a  law  of  art,  as  of  life ;  for  art  is 
idealized  creation.  Great  artists,  poets,  want  neither  for  or- 
ders nor  customers ;  they  labor  to-day,  to-morrow,  always. 
From  it  results  the  habit  of  work,  the  ever-present  knowledge 
of  the  difficulties  which  keep  artists  en  concubinage  with  the 
Muse,  with  her  creative  strength.  Canova  lived  in  his  studio, 
like  Voltaire  lived  in  his  study ;  Homer  and  Phidias  must  have 
lived  in  the  same  way."  I  wanted  particularly  to  quote  that 
passage,  because,  side  by  side  with  the  good  qualities  of  cour- 

[      •  "  Poor  Relations  "  first  appeared  as  a  feuilleton  in  the  "  Constitutional."     li 


36c  SAINTE-BEUVE 

jLge  and  hard  work  shown  in  it,  qualities  that  do  Bakac  honor, 
we  grasp  his  modem  side — ^the  strange  inadvertence  by  which 
he  disparages  and  outrages  the  beauty  he  pretends  to  follow- 
No,  neither  Homer  nor  Phidias  lived  en  concubinage  with  the 
Muse.    They  always  received  and  knew  her  chaste  and  severe, 

M.  de  Bonald  said  "  Beauty  is  always  severe."  I  need  a 
few  words  of  such  authority;  they  are  unchangeable  sacred 
columns  that  I  am  anxious  to  point  to  in  the  distance,  so  that 
even  our  admiration  and  our  meed  of  regret  for  a  man  of  mar- 
vellous genius  may  not  be  carried  beyond  lawful  bounds. 

Balzac  speaks  somewhere  of  the  artists  who  had  "  a  pro- 
digious success,  a  success  likely  to  crush  men  whose  backs 
were  not  broad  enough  to  support  it  " ;  which,  he  adds  paren- 
thetically, often  happens.  Indeed,  the  day  after  victory  is  for 
the  artist  a  more  terrible  trial  than  the  great  battle  he  must 
sooner  or  later  fight.  To  uphold  his  victory,  to  carry  on  his 
reputation,  neither  to  be  frightened  nor  discouraged,  neither 
to  sink  nor  fall  under  the  blow,  as  Leopold  Robert  did,  it  is 
necessary  to  possess  a  real  strength,  and  to  be  conscious  of 
reaching  only  one's  level.  Balzac  has  proved  that  he  had  that 
sort  of  strength. 

When  people  spoke  of  fame  to  him,  he  accepted  the  word 
as  well  as  the  omen;  he  sometimes  spoke  jestingly  of  it  him- 
self. "  Fame,"  he  said  one  day ;  "  to  whom  are  you  speaking? 
I  have  known  it,  seen  it.  I  was  travelling  with  some  friends 
in  Russia,  night  was  coming  on,  we  demanded  hospitality  at 
a  castle.  On  our  arrival  the  chatelaine  and  her  ladies-in-wait- 
ing bustled  about ;  one  of  the  latter  left  the  room  immediately 
to  fetch  refreshments.  In  the  interval  my  name  was  men- 
tioned to  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  we  entered  into  conversa- 
tion. When  the  lady  returned,  with  a  tray  in  her  hands,  she 
suddenly  heard  the  words :  '  Well,  M.  de  Balzac,  you  think, 
then  .  .  .'  In  an  impulse  of  surprise  and  joy  she  let  the  tray 
fall,  and  everything  was  broken.     Was  not  that  fame?  " 

We  smiled,  he  smiled  himself,  and  yet  he  enjoyed  it.  The 
feeling  supported  and  encouraged  him  in  his  work.  The  wit- 
tiest and  most  to  be  regretted  of  his  disciples,  Charles  de  Ber- 
nard, (lead  but  a  short  tiinc  since,  lacked  that  incentive;  he 
suspected  everything  with  irony  and  even  with  taste,  and  his 
remarkable  work  is  a  witness  of  it.     Balzac's  work  gained  in 


BALZAC  s^i 

animation  and  ardor  from  the  artist's  excitement.  An  exquis- 
ite delicacy  insinuated  itself  into  the  excitement. 

All  Europe  was  to  him  a  park,  in  which  he  had  only  to  take 
a  walk  in  order  to  meet  friends,  admirers,  cordial  and  sumptu- 
ous hospitality.  The  little  flower  he  showed  you,  scarcely  dry, 
he  gathered  the  other  morning  returning  from  the  Villa-Dio- 
dati ;  the  picture  he  described  to  you  he  had  seen  yesterday 
in  the  palace  of  a  Roman  prince.  It  seemed  to  him  that  from 
one  capital  to  another,  from  a  Roman  villa  or  from  Isola-Bella 
to  a  Polish  or  Bohemian  castle  was  but  a  step.  A  stroke  of 
the  wand  transported  him  there.  It  cannot  be  said  that  it 
was  a  dream  to  him,  for  a  devoted  woman,  one  of  those  he 
deified  in  passing,  fortunately  realized  for  him  what  for  a  long 
while  seemed  the  poet's  dream  and  illusion. 

All  the  artists  of  the  time  were  his  friends,  and  he  placed 
them  almost  magnificently  in  his  works.  He  possessed  ex- 
cellent taste  and  had  a  great  love  of  works  of  art,  painting, 
sculpture,  antique  furniture.  When  he  had  leisure  (and  he 
often  found  means  of  getting  it,  giving  up  his  days  to  imagina- 
tion, spending  his  nights  in  work),  he  liked  to  go  on  a  hunt  for 
what  he  called  fine  pieces.  In  this  way  he  knew  all  the  bric-a- 
brac  shops  of  Europe,  and  he  expatiated  on  them  admirably. 
When  he  afterwards  put  into  a  novel  masses  of  objects,  which, 
in  the  hands  of  another  writer,  would  have  resembled  an  in- 
ventory, it  was  with  color  and  life,  and  with  love.  The  furni- 
ture he  describes  possesses  a  sort  of  life ;  the  tapestries  rustic. 
He  describes  too  much,  but  usually  the  light  falls  in  the  right 
place.  Even  when  the  result  does  not  correspond  to  the  care 
he  seems  to  have  taken,  the  reader  retains  the  impression  of 
having  been  moved.  Balzac  has  the  gift  of  color  and  mass- 
ing. By  it  he  attracted  painters  who  recognized  in  him  one 
of  themselves  transplanted  and  strayed  into  literature. 

He  paid  scant  attention  to  criticism  ;  he  had  cut  his  way  into 
the  world  almost  in  spite  of  it,  and  his  enthusiasm  was  not,  I 
think,  of  the  sort  that  could  be  moderated  or  guided.  He 
said  somewhere  of  a  disheartened  sculptor,  fallen  into  idle- 
ness :  "  Become  again  an  artist  in  partihns;  he  had  great  suc- 
cess in  drawing-rooms,  he  was  consulted  by  many  amateurs, 
he  turned  critic,  like  all  weak  men  who  do  not  fulfil  their  early 
promise."    The  last  characteristic  may  be  true  of  a  sculptor  oc 


364  SAINTE-BEUVE 

painter  who,  instead  of  working,  spends  his  time  in  discoursing 
and  arguing ;  but  in  the  order  of  ideas,  Balzac's  saying,  often 
repeated  by  a  whole  school  of  young  men  of  letters,  is  (I  ask 
their  pardon)  at  once  an  injustice  and  an  error.  However,  as 
it  is  always  a  delicate  matter  to  prove  to  people  in  what  they 
are  or  are  not  weak,  let  us  pass  on. 

A  true,  sincere,  intelligent  Aristarchus,  if  he  could  have 
tolerated  him,  would  have  been  useful  to  Balzac ;  for  his  rich 
and  luxurious  nature  was  lavish,  and  did  not  control  itself. 
In  a  novel  three  things  are  to  be  considered:  the  characters, 
the  action,  the  style.  Balzac  excels  in  the  disposing  of  his 
characters ;  he  makes  them  hve,  he  chisels  them  in  an  indelible 
manner.  There  is  exaggeration  and  minuteness,  what  does  it 
matter?  The  characters  have  in  them  something  enduring. 
With  him  we  make  refined,  charming,  coquettish,  and  merry 
acquaintances,  at  other  times  very  unpleasant  ones ;  but  once 
made,  we  are  sure  of  never  forgetting  either  the  one  or  the 
other.  He  is  not  contented  with  drawing  his  characters  well, 
he  names  them  after  some  strange,  happy  fashion,  and  so  fixes 
them  forever  in  the  memory.  He  attaches  the  greatest  im- 
portance to  baptizing  his  men  and  women ;  like  Sterne,  he  at- 
tributed a  certain  occult  power  to  proper  names  in  harmony 
or  in  irony  with  the  characters.  The  Marnefifes,  Bixious, 
Birotteaus,  Crevels  are  thus  named  by  him  in  virtue  of  some 
indescribable  onomatopceia  which  makes  the  man  and  the  name 
resemble  each  other.  After  the  characters  comes  the  action ; 
with  Balzac  it  is  often  weak,  it  wanders  about,  it  is  exagger- 
ated. He  is  less  successful  in  that  than  in  the  creation  of  the 
characters.  His  style  is  delicate,  subtle,  fluent,  picturesque, 
owing  nothing  to  tradition.  I  have  sometimes  wondered  what 
effect  a  novel  of  Balzac  would  produce  on  an  honest  mind 
brought  up  on  good  ordinary  French  prose  in  all  its  frugality, 
on  a  mind  of  which  there  are  no  more,  a  mind  formed  by  read- 
ing Nicole,  Bourdaloue,  by  the  simple,  serious,  and  scrupulous 
style  which  goes  far,  as  La  Bruyere  said ;  such  a  mind  would 
be  giddy  for  a  month.  La  Bruyere  said  that  for  every  thought 
there  is  only  one  right  expression,  and  it  must  be  found.  Bal- 
zac in  writing  ignores  La  Bruyere's  saying.  He  has  series  of 
animated,  unsatisfied,  capricious,  never  definite  expressions, 
attempts  at  expressions,  which  ever  seek.     His  printers  knew 


BALZAC 


365 


it  well.  In  the  course  of  the  printing  of  his  books  he  altered, 
he  rewrote  each  proof  in  never-ending  fashion.  With  him  the 
mould  itself  was  always  at  boiling  heat,  and  the  metal  did  not 
set.     He  had  found  the  desired  form,  and  sought  it  still. 

Would  the  most  friendly  criticism,  that  of  a  friend,  a  com- 
panion as  he  was  of  Louis  Lambert,  have  ever  induced  him 
to  accept  ideas  of  relative  moderation,  and  to  introduce  them 
into  the  torrent  of  his  genius,  so  that  he  might  have  restrained 
and  regulated  it  a  little?  Without  desiring  to  lose  anything 
of  his  fertile  manner,  I  wish  there  had  been  present  to  his  mind 
a  few  axioms  that  are,  I  consider,  essential  to  every  art,  to  all 
literature : 

"  Clearness  is  the  varnish  of  masters." — Vauvenargues. 

"  A  work  of  art  ought  only  to  express  what  elevates  the 
soul,  nobly  rejoices  it,  and  nothing  more.  The  artist's  feeling 
ought  only  to  be  directed  to  that,  all  the  rest  is  false." — Bet- 
tine  to  Goethe's  mother. 

"  Good  sense  and  genius  are  of  the  same  family ;  wit  is  only 
a  collateral." — Bonald. 

In  fact  I  wish  that  he  who  so  much  admired  Napoleon,  whom 
that  great  example,  transported  and  reflected  into  literature, 
'dazzled  as  it  dazzled  so  many  besides,  had  left  aside  the  similes, 
the  foolish  emulations  fit  only  for  children,  and  that,  if  he  felt 
absolutely  obliged  to  seek  his  ideal  of  power  in  military  mat- 
ters, he  had  sometimes  asked  himself  the  question,  eminently 
fitted  to  find  a  place  in  every  good  French  treatise  on  rhetoric : 
"  Which  is  liner,  an  Asiatic  conqueror  dragging  countless 
hordes  behind  him,  or  Turenne  defending  the  Rhine  at  the 
head  of  thirty  thousand  men  ?  " 

Do  not  let  us  force  nature,  and  since  death  has  closed  his 
career,  let  us  accept  of  the  genius  that  is  gone  the  rich  and 
complex  inheritance  it  has  left  us.  The  author  of  "  Eugenie 
Grandet  "  will  live.  The  father — I  was  going  to  say  the  lover 
of  Madame  de  Mcumenil — of  Madame  de  Beauseant  will  re- 
tain his  place  on  the  small  tables  of  the  most  retired  and  select 
boudoirs.  Those  who  seek  joy,  gayety,  expansion  of  heart,  the 
satirical  and  frank  vein  of  the  Rabelaisian  Tourangeau  cannot 
,'despise  the  admirable  Gaudissart,  the  excellent  Birotteau,  and 
[all  their  race.  There  is  something,  it  seems,  for  ever^'one.  If 
'I_had  the  space,  I  should  like  to  speak  of  Balzac's  last  novel, 


366  SAINTE-BEUVE 

in  my  opinion  one  of  his  most  remarkable  books,  although  not 
the  most  flattering  to  society.  "  Poor  Relations  "  shows  us 
Balzac's  vigorous  genius  in  its  ripest  maturity,  in  its  widest 
scope.  He  is  over-abundant,  he  swims,  he  seems  completely 
in  his  element.  Never  was  the  topsy-turvydom  of  human 
worthlessness  better  displayed  or  put  into  motion.  The  first 
part  of  the  novel  (Cousin  Bette)  presents  characters  of  much 
truih  side  by  side  with  the  exaggeration  inseparable  from  this 
author.  Bette,  who  lends  her  name  to  the  novel,  is  one  of 
the  exaggerations ;  it  does  not  seem  that  the  poor  creature  who 
appears  first  as  a  simple  Vosges  peasant,  ill-clothed,  badly 
dressed,  rough,  a  little  envious,  but  neither  wicked  nor  a  rogue, 
could  be  the  same  who,  at  a  given  moment,  is  transformed  into 
an  almost  beautiful  woman  of  society,  and  extremely  obstinate 
and  wicked,  a  female  lago  or  Richard  III !  Things  do  not 
happen  thus  in  real  life ;  that  woman  is  of  the  race  of  Ferragus 
and  Treize.  Our  degenerate  and  vitiated  society  does  not 
admit  of  those  atrocious  hatreds  and  vengeances.  Our  sins  are 
certainly  not  small ;  our  crimes,  however,  are  less  great.  But 
other  characters  of  the  novel  are  true,  profoundly  true,  and 
especially  that  of  Baron  Hulot,  with  his  immoderate  love  of 
women  that  step  by  step  leads  the  honorable  man  to  dishonor 
and  the  old  man  to  degradation ;  and  Crevel,  excellent  all 
round,  in  tone,  in  gesture,  in  humor,  all  the  vices  of  the  bour- 
geois clearly  showing  in  his  bearing  and  his  self-importance. 
For  note  we  are  not  here  confronted  only  with  caprice,  ec- 
centricity, nor  even  with  human  folly :  vice  is  the  mainspring, 
social  depravity  is  the  subject  of  the  novel.  The  author 
plunges  into  it;  to  see  his  animation  we  might  even  say  that 
in  parts  he  enjoys  it.  A  few  lofty,  pathetic  scenes  move  us 
to  tears ;  but  the  horrible  scenes  predominate,  the  sap  of  im- 
purity overflows,  the  infamous  Marneffe  infects  everything. 
The  remarkable  novel,  studied  by  itself,  would  give  rise  to  re- 
flections which  would  affect  not  only  Balzac  but  all  of  us,  the 
more  or  less  secret  or  avowed  children  of  a  sensual  literature. 
Some  men,  sons  of  Rene,  hide  and  envelop  their  sensualism 
in  mysticism,  while  others  frankly  strip  off  the  mask. 

Balzac  often  thought  of  Walter  Scott,  and  he  says  the  genius 
of  the  great  Scotch  novelist  roused  his  keenest  interest.  But 
in  the  midst  of  the  vast  work  of  the  delightful  wizard,  did  hc 


BALZAC  367 

not  recognize,  according  to  Lamartine's  happy  expression: 
"The  noble  sentiments  rising  from  the  pages — like  the  per- 
fume of  odoriferous  shores  "?  Did  he  not  breathe  the  univer- 
sal charm  of  purity  and  health,  salubrious  breezes  that  blow 
even  athwart  the  conflict  of  human  passions?  After  reading 
"Poor  Relations,"  we  feel  the  need  of  new  vigor,  of  throwing 
ourselves  into  some  healthful  and  hmpid  book,  of  plunging 
into  some  song  of  Milton  in  lucid  streams,  as  the  poet  says. 

In  a  more  complete  work,  and  if  we  were  free  to  give  our- 
selves full  play,  it  would  be  interesting  to  establish  and  gradu- 
ate the  true  relation  of  the  genius  of  Balzac  to  that  of  his  most 
celebrated  contemporaries — Madame  Sand,  Eugene  Sue, 
Alexandre  Dumas.  Of  an  entirely  different  style,  but  with  a 
view  of  human  nature  neither  more  favorable  nor  more  flat- 
tering, Merimee  might  be  taken  as  a  contrast  in  tone  and  man- 
ner. 

Merimee  has  not  perhaps  a  better  opinion  of  human  nature 
than  Balzac,  and  if  it  has  been  slandered  it  is  certainly  not  he 
who  will  reinstate  it.  But  he  is  a  man  of  taste,  of  nice  discern- 
ment, of  exact  and  rigorous  sense,  who  even  in  the  excess  of 
the  idea  preserves  a  prudence  and  discretion  of  manner.  He 
possesses  the  personal  feeling  for  ridicule  as  much  as  Balzac 
lacked  it,  and  in  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  clearness,  vigor  of 
line,  and  precision  of  burin  that  we  admire,  we  cannot  help 
missing  a  little  of  the  animation  the  other  possessed  in  too 
high  a  degree.  It  might  be  said  of  him  that  the  accomplished 
man  of  the  world,  the  gentleman,  as  it  was  formerly  said,  held 
the  artist  in  check. 

Is  it  necessary  to  recall  to  mind  that  Madame  Sand  is  a 
greater,  surer,  and  stronger  writer  than  Balzac?  She  never 
hesitates  in  expresssion.  She  is  a  greater  painter  of  nature 
and  landscape.  As  a  novelist  her  characters  in  the  beginning 
are  often  well  conceived,  well  designed ;  but  they  soon  turn 
to  a  Rousseau-like  ideal  which  becomes  almost  a  system.  Her 
characters  are  not  entirely  alive;  at  a  certain  point  they  be- 
come types.  She  never  calumniates  human  nature,  neither 
does  she  adorn  it ;  she  tries  to  enrich  it,  but  in  aiming  at  en- 
larging it,  she  forces  and  distends  it.  She  lays  the  blame  on 
society,  and  disparages  whole  classes,  and  desires  in  any  and 
every  case  to  bring  into  notice,  individuals,  who  are,  notwith- 


368  SAINTE-BEUVE 

standing,  half  abstract.  In  short,  the  masterly  precision  which 
she  puts  into  expression  and  description  is  not  found  in  an 
equal  degree  in  the  realization  of  her  characters.  This  is  said, 
however,  with  all  the  reservation  due  to  so  many  charming  and 
natural  situations  and  scenes.  Her  style,  however,  is  a  g^ft 
of  the  first  quality,  and  of  the  finest  stamp. 

M.  Eugene  Sue  (let  us  turn  from  the  socialist  and  speak  only 
of  the  novelist)  is  perhaps  Balzac's  equal  in  invention,  fertility, 
and  composition.  He  constructs  wonderfully  big  frames ;  his 
characters  live,  and  we  remember  them  against  our  will ;  above 
all,  he  possesses  action  and  dramatic  machinery  of  which  he 
thoroughly  understands  the  manipulation.  But  the  details  are 
often  weak ;  they  are  numerous  and  varied  enough,  but  less 
delicate,  of  less  research,  showing  less  original  and  fresh  ob- 
servation than  in  Balzac.  He  also  possesses  gayety,  and  seizes 
happy  and  natural  types ;  but  in  addition  he  loves  and  affects 
eccentricities,  and  takes  too  much  pleasure  in  describing  them. 
•With  one,  as  with  the  other,  we  must  set  no  store  by  whole- 
some nature ;  they  prefer  to  work  on  what  is  corrupt  or  arti- 
ficial. Eugene  Sue  cannot  write  so  much,  nor  so  badly,  nor 
so  subtly  in  regard  to  evil,  as  Balzac.  He  was  wrong  in  not 
entirely  abandoning  himself  to  the  instincts  of  his  own  nature, 
and  in  consulting  the  systems  in  vogue  and  in  setting  them 
forth  in  his  later  novels — a  thing  Balzac  never  did.  He  at 
least  only  obeyed  his  instincts,  his  favorite  inspirations,  and 
abandoned  himself  to  them  more  and  more  as  an  artist  who 
never  makes  compromises.  As  regards  the  stream,  Balzac  has 
never  followed  any  but  his  own. 

Everybody  knows  M.  Dumas's  immense  animation,  high 
spirits,  happy  set  scenes,  and  witty  and  always  living  dialogue. 
His  graceful  narrative  runs  on  without  stopping,  and  can  re- 
move obstacles  and  even  space  without  becoming  weak.  He 
covers  enormous  canvases,  and  neither  his  brush  nor  his  reader 
grows  weary.  He  is  amusing;  he  charms  our  imagination, 
but  does  not  take  tight  hold  of  it  like  Balzac. 

Of  the  three  last,  Balzac  lays  hold  of  things  most  closely,  and 
sounds  them  most  deeply. 

The  Revolution  of  February  struck  Balzac  a  keen  blow. 
The  whole  edifice  of  refined  civilization,  such  as  he  had  always 
dreamed  of  it,  seemed  ruined.     For  a  moment,  Europe,  his 


BALZAC  369 

own  Europe,  was  to  fail  him  like  France.  However,  he  soon 
took  heart  again,  and  meditated  describing  at  close  quarters 
the  new  society  in  the  fourth  dress  in  which  it  presented  itself 
to  him.  I  could  sketch  in  his  next  novel,  his  last  projected 
novel,  of  which  he  spoke  with  ardor.  But  of  what  use  is  one 
dream  the  more  ?  He  died  of  heart  disease,  as  so  many  men 
who  have  worked  too  ardently  in  life  die  nowadays.  Scarcely 
three  years  ago  Frederic  Soulie  succumbed  to  the  same  mal- 
ady, a  man  it  would  be  unjust  to  forget  in  grouping  together 
the  gods  of  that  literature. 

Perhaps,  the  place  to  repeat  that  that  literature  created  its 
school  and  served  its  time,  is  over  the  grave  of  one  of  the  most 
fertile  of  them,  assuredly  of  the  most  inventive;  the  school 
gave  us  its  most  vigorous,  almost  gigantic  talents ;  for  good 
or  bad  it  may  be  thought  now  that  the  best  of  its  sap  is  ex- 
hausted. Let  it  at  least  cry  truce  and  rest;  let  it  also  leave 
society  time  to  recruit  its  strength  after  its  excesses,  to  com- 
pose itself  into  some  sort  of  order,  and  to  present  new  pictures 
to  painters  of  a  fresher  inspiration.  There  was  latterly  a  ter- 
rible rivalry  and  a  keen  competition  between  the  strongest 
men  of  that  active,  devouring,  inflammatory  literature.  The 
mode  of  publication  in  feuilletons,  which  necessitated  in  each 
new  chapter  a  striking  situation  that  should  impress  itself  on 
the  reader,  drove  the  effects  and  tones  of  the  novel  to  an  ex- 
treme pitch,  discouraging  and  no  longer  tolerable.  Let  us 
compose  ourselves  a  little.  While  admitting  the  advantage 
derived  by  men  whose  talent  lacked  the  conditions  necessary 
for  a  better  development,  let  us  desire  for  the  future  of  our 
society,  pictures,  not  less  vast,  but  more  satisfying,  more  con- 
soling, and  let  us  hope  for  those  who  paint  them  a  quieter  life, 
and  an  inspiration  not  more  delicate,  but  more  calm,  more 
soundly  natural  and  serene. 


MONTAIGNE 

WHILE  the  good  ship  France  is  taking  a  somewhat 
haphazard  course,  getting  into  unknown  seas,  and 
preparing  to  double  what  the  pilots  (if  there  is  a  pilot) 
call  the  Stormy  Cape,  while  the  look-out  at  the  mast-head 
thinks  he  sees  the  spectre  of  the  giant  Adamastor  rising  on  the 
horizon,  many  honorable  and  peaceable  men  continue  their 
work  and  studies  all  the  same,  and  follow  out  to  the  end,  or  as 
far  as  they  can,  their  favorite  hobbies.  I  know,  at  the  present 
time,  a  learned  man  who  is  collating  more  carefully  than  has 
ever  yet  been  done  the  different  early  editions  of  Rabelais — 
editions,  mark  you,  of  which  only  one  copy  remains,  of  which 
a  second  is  not  to  be  found :  from  the  careful  collation  of  the 
texts  some  literary  and  maybe  philosophical  result  will  be 
derived  with  regard  to  the  genius  of  the  French  Lucian-Aris- 
tophanes.  I  know  another  scholar  whose  devotion  and  wor- 
ship is  given  to  a  very  different  man — to  Bossuet :  he  is  pre- 
paring a  complete,  exact,  detailed  history  of  the  life  and  works 
of  the  great  bishop.  And  as  tastes  differ,  and  "  human  fancy 
is  cut  into  a  thousand  shapes  "  (Montaigne  said  that),  Mon- 
taigne also  has  his  devotees,  he  who,  himself,  was  so  little  of 
one:  a  sect  is  formed  round  him.  In  his  lifetime  he  had 
Mademoiselle  de  Goumay,  his  daughter  of  alliance,  who  was 
solemnly  devoted  to  him ;  and  his  disciple,  Charron,  followed 
him  closely,  step  by  step,  only  striving  to  arrange  his  thoughts 
with  more  order  and  method.  In  our  time  amateurs,  intelli- 
gent men,  practise  the  religion  under  another  form :  they  de- 
vote themselves  to  collecting  the  smallest  traces  of  the  author 
of  the  "  Essays,"  to  gathering  up  the  slightest  relics,  and  Dr. 
Payen  may  be  justly  placed  at  the  head  of  the  group.  For 
years  he  has  been  preparing  a  book  on  Montaigfne,  of  which 
the  title  will  be — 

"  Michel  de  Montaigne :  a  collection  of  unedited  or  little 

371 


372  SAINTE-BEUVE 

known  facts  about  the  author  of  the  '  Essays/  his  book,  an'd 
his  other  writings,  about  his  family,  his  friends,  his  admirers, 
his  detractors." 

While  awaiting  the  conclusion  of  the  book,  the  occupation 
and  amusement  of  a  lifetime,  Dr.  Payen  keeps  us  informed  in 
short  pamphlets  of  the  various  works  and  discoveries  made 
about  Montaigne. 

If  we  separate  the  discoveries  made  during  the  last  five  or  six 
years  from  the  jumble  of  quarrels,  disputes,  cavilling,  quack- 
ery, and  law-suits  (for  there  have  been  all  those),  they  con- 
sist in  this — 

In  1846  M.  Mace  found  in  the  (then)  Royal  Library,  amongst 
the  "  Collection  Du  Puys,"  a  letter  of  Montaigne,  addressed  to 
the  King,  Henri  IV,  September  2,  1590. 

In  1847  M.  Payen  printed  a  letter,  or  a  fragment  of  a  letter, 
of  Montaigne  of  February  16,  1588,  a  letter  corrupt  and  incom- 
plete, coming  from  the  collection  of  the  Comtesse  Boni  de 
Castellane. 

But  most  important  of  all,  in  1848,  M.  Horace  de  Viel- 
Castel  found  in  London,  at  the  British  Museum,  a  remarkable 
letter  of  Montaigne,  May  22,  1585,  when  Mayor  of  Bordeaux, 
addressed  to  M.  de  Matignon,  the  King's  lieutenant  in  the 
town.  The  great  interest  of  the  letter  is  that  it  shows  Mon- 
taigne for  the  first  time  in  the  full  discharge  of  his  office  with 
all  the  energy  and  vigilance  of  which  he  was  capable.  The 
pretended  idler  was  at  need  much  more  active  than  he  was 
ready  to  own. 

M.  Detcheverry,  keeper  of  the  records  to  the  mayoralty  of 
Bordeaux,  found  and  published  (1850)  a  letter  of  Montaigne, 
while  mayor,  to  the  Jurats,  or  aldermen  of  the  town,  July  30, 

1585- 

M.  Achille  Jubinal  found  among  the  manuscripts  of  the 
National  Library,  and  published  (1850),  a  long,  remarkable 
letter  from  Montaigne  to  the  King,  Henri  IV,  January  18, 
1590,  which  happily  coincides  with  that  already  found  by  M. 
Mace. 

Lastly,  to  omit  nothing  and  to  do  justice  to  all,  in  a  "  Visit 
to  Montaigne's  Chateau  in  Perigord,"  of  which  the  account 
appeared  in  1850,  M.  Bcrtrand  de  Saint-Germain  described 
the  place  and  pointed  out  the  various  Greek  and  Latin  inscrip- 


MONTAIGNE  373 

tions  that  may  still  be  read  in  Montaigne's  tower  in  the  third- 
story  chamber  (the  ground  floor  counting  as  the  first),  which 
the  philosopher  made  his  library  and  study. 

M.  Payen,  collecting  together  and  criticising  in  his  last 
pamphlet  the  various  notices  and  discoveries,  not  all  of  equal 
importance,  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  some  little  ex- 
aggeration of  praise ;  but  we  cannot  blame  him.  Admiration, 
when  applied  to  such  noble,  perfectly  innocent  and  disin- 
terested subjects,  is  truly  a  spark  of  the  sacred  fire :  it  produces 
research  that  a  less  ardent  zeal  would  quickly  leave  aside,  and 
sometimes  leads  to  valuable  results.  However,  it  would  be 
well  for  those  who,  following  M.  Payen's  example,  intelli- 
gently understand  and  greatly  admire  Montaigne,  to  remem- 
ber, even  in  their  ardor,  the  advice  of  the  wise  man  and  the 
master. 

"  There  is  more  to  do,"  said  he,  speaking  of  the  commen- 
tators of  his  time,  "  in  interpreting  the  interpretations  than 
in  interpreting  the  things  themselves ;  and  more  books  about 
books  than  on  any  other  subject.  Wc  do  nothing  but  every- 
thing swarms  with  commentators ;  of  authors  there  is  a  great 
rarity."  Authors  are  of  great  price  and  very  scarce  at  all 
times — that  is  to  say,  authors  who  really  increase  the  sum  of 
human  knowledge.  I  should  like  all  who  write  on  Montaigne, 
and  give  us  the  details  of  their  researches  and  discoveries,  to 
imagine  one  thing — Montaigne  himself  reading  and  criticis- 
ing them.  "  What  would  he  think  of  me  and  of  the  manner  in 
which  I  am  going  to  speak  of  him  to  the  public  ?  "  If  such  a 
question  was  put,  how  greatly  it  would  suppress  useless  phrases 
and  shorten  idle  discussions !  M.  Payen's  last  pamphlet  was 
dedicated  to  a  man  who  deserves  equally  well  of  Montaigne — 
M.  Gustave  Brunet,  of  Bordeaux.  He,  speaking  of  M.  Payen, 
in  a  work  in  which  he  pointed  out  interesting  and  various  cor- 
rections of  Montaigne's  text,  said :  "  May  he  soon  decide  to 
publish  the  fruits  of  his  researches :  he  will  have  left  nothing 
for  future  Montaignologues."  Montaignologues !  Great 
Heaven !  what  would  Montaigne  say  of  such  a  word  coined  in 
his  honor?  You  who  occupy  yourselves  so  meritoriously  with 
him,  but  who  have,  I  think,  no  claim  to  appropriate  him  to 
yourselves,  in  the  name  of  him  whom  you  love,  and  whom  we 
all  love  by  a  greater  or  lesser  title,  never,  I  beg  of  you,  use 


374  SAINTE-BEUVE 

such  words ;  they  smack  of  the  brotherhood  and  the  sect,  of 
pedantry  and  of  the  chatter  of  the  schools — things  utterly  re- 
pugnant to  Montaigne. 

Montaigne  had  a  simple,  natural,  affable  mind,  and  a  very 
happy  disposition.  Sprung  from  an  excellent  father,  who, 
though  of  no  great  education,  entered  with  real  enthusiasm  intQ 
the  movement  of  the  Renaissance  and  all  the  liberal  novelties 
of  his  time,  the  son  corrected  the  excessive  enthusiasm,  vivac- 
ity, and  tenderness  he  inherited  by  a  great  refinement  and  just- 
ness of  reflection ;  but  he  did  not  abjure  the  original  ground- 
work. It  is  scarcely  more  than  thirty  years  ago  that  whenever 
the  sixteenth  century  was  mentioned  it  was  spoken  of  as  a 
barbarous  epoch,  Montaigne  only  excepted :  therein  lay  error 
and  ignorance.  The  sixteenth  century  was  a  great  century, 
fertile,  powerful,  learned,  refined  in  parts,  although  in  some 
aspects  it  was  rough,  violent,  and  seemingly  coarse.  What  it 
particularly  lacked  was  taste,  if  by  taste  is  meant  the  faculty  of 
clear  and  perfect  selection,  the  extrication  of  the  elements  of 
the  beautiful.  But  in  the  succeeding  centuries  taste  quickly 
became  distaste.  If,  however,  in  literature  it  was  crude,  in  the 
arts  properly  so  called,  in  those  of  the  hand  and  the  chisel,  the 
sixteenth  century,  even  in  France,  is,  in  the  quality  of  taste,  far 
greater  than  the  two  succeeding  centuries :  it  is  neither  meagre 
nor  massive,  heavy  nor  distorted.  In  art  its  taste  is  rich  and 
of  fine  quality — at  once  unrestrained  and  complex,  ancient  and 
modern,  special  to  itself  and  original.  In  the  region  of  morals 
it  is  unequal  and  mixed.  It  was  an  age  of  contrasts,  of  con- 
trasts in  all  their  crudity,  an  age  of  philosophy  and  fanaticism, 
of  scepticism  and  strong  faith.  Everything  was  at  strife  and  in 
collision  ;  nothing  was  blended  and  united.  Everything  was  in 
ferment ;  it  was  a  period  of  chaos ;  every  ray  of  light  caused  a 
storm.  It  was  not  a  gentle  age,  or  one  we  can  call  an  age  of 
light,  but  an  age  of  struggle  and  combat.  What  distinguished 
Montaigne  and  made  a  phenomenon  of  him  was,  that  in  such 
an  age  he  should  have  possessed  moderation,  caution,  and 
order. 

P>orn  on  the  last  day  of  February,  1533,  taught  the  ancient 
languages  as  a  game  while  still  a  child,  waked  even  in  his 
cradle  by  the  sound  of  musical  instruments,  he  seemed  less 
fitted  for  a  rude  and  violent  epoch  than  for  the  commerce 


MONTAIGNE  375 

and  sanctuary  of  the  muses.  His  rare  good  sense  corrected 
what  was  too  ideal  and  poetical  in  his  early  education ;  but  he 
preserved  the  happy  faculty  of  saying  everything  with  freshness 
and  wit.  Married,  when  past  thirty,  to  an  estimable  woman 
who  was  his  companion  for  twenty-eight  years,  he  seems  to 
have  put  passion  only  into  friendship.  He  immortalized  his 
love  for  Etienne  de  la  Boetie,  whom  he  lost  after  four  years  of 
the  sweetest  and  closest  intimacy.  For  some  time  counsellor 
in  the  Parliament  of  Bordeaux,  Montaigne,  before  he  was  forty, 
retired  from  public  life  and  flung  away  ambition  to  live  in  his 
tower  of  Montaigne,  enjoying  his  own  society  and  his  own  intel- 
lect, entirely  given  up  to  his  own  observations  and  thoughts, 
and  to  the  busy  idleness  of  which  we  know  all  the  sports  and 
fancies.  The  first  edition  of  the  "  Essays  "  appeared  in  1580, 
consisting  of  only  two  books,  and  in  a  form  representing  only 
the  first  rough  draft  of  what  we  have  in  the  later  editions. 
The  same  year  Montaigne  set  out  on  a  voyage  to  Switzerland 
and  Italy.  It  was  during  that  voyage  that  the  aldermen  of 
Bordeaux  elected  him  mayor  of  their  town.  At  first  he  refused 
and  excused  himself,  but  warned  that  it  would  be  well  to  ac- 
cept, and  enjoined  by  the  King,  he.took'the  office,  "  the  more 
beautiful,"  he  said,  "  that  there  was  neither  remuneration  nor 
gain  other  than  the  honor  of  its  performance."  He  filled  the 
office  for  four  years,  from  July,  1582,  to  July,  1586,  being  re- 
elected after  the  first  two  years.  Thus  Montaigne,  at  the  age 
of  fifty,  and  a  little  against  his  will,  re-entered  public  life  when 
the  country  was  on  the  eve  of  civil  disturbances  which,  quieted 
and  lulled  to  sleep  for  a  while,  broke  out  more  violently  at 
the  cry  of  the  League.  Although,  as  a  rule,  lessons  serve  for 
nothing,  since  the  art  of  wisdom  and  happiness  cannot  be 
taught,  let  us  not  deny  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  listening  to 
Montaigne ;  let  us  look  on  his  wisdom  and  happiness ;  let 
him  speak  of  public  afifairs,  of  revolutions  and  disturbances, 
and  of  his  way  of  conducting  himself  with  regard  to  them.  We 
do  not  put  forward  a  model,  but  we  offer  our  readers  an  agree- 
able recreation. 

Although  Montaigne  lived  in  so  agitated  and  stormy  a  time, 
a  period  that  a  man  who  had  lived  through  the  Terror  (M. 
Daunou)  called  the  most  tragic  century  in  all  history,  he  by 
no  means  regarded  his  age  as  the  worst  of  ages.    He  was  not 


376  SAINTE-BEUVE 

of  those  prejudiced  and  afflicted  persons,  who,  measuring  every- 
thing by  their  visual  horizon,  valuing  everything  according  to 
their  present  sensations,  always  declare  that  the  disease  they  suf- 
fer from  is  worse  than  any  ever  before  experienced  by  a  human 
being.  He  was  like  Socrates,  who  did  not  consider  himself  a 
citizen  of  one  city  but  of  the  world ;  with  his  broad  and  full 
imagination  he  embraced  the  universality  of  countries  and  of 
ages ;  he  even  judged  more  equitably  the  very  evils  of  which 
he  was  witness  and  victim.  "  Who  is  it,"  he  said,  "  that,  see- 
ing the  bloody  havoc  of  these  civil  wars  of  ours,  does  not  cry 
out  that  the  machine  of  the  world  is  near  dissolution,  and  that 
the  day  of  judgment  is  at  hand,  without  considering  that  many 
worse  revolutions  have  been  seen,  and  that,  in  the  mean  time, 
people  are  being  merry  in  a  thousand  other  parts  of  the  earth 
for  all  this?  For  my  part,  considering  the  license  and  im- 
punity that  always  attend  such  commotions,  I  admire  they  are 
so  moderate,  and  that  there  is  not  more  mischief  done.  To 
him  who  feels  the  hailstones  patter  about  his  ears,  the  whole 
hemisphere  appears  to  be  in  storm  and  tempest."  And  rais- 
ing his  thoughts  higher  and  higher,  reducing  his  own  suffering 
to  what  it  was  in  the  immensity  of  nature,  seeing  there  not 
only  himself,  but  whole  kingdoms  as  mere  specks  in  the  infinite, 
he  added  in  words  which  foreshadowed  Pascal,  in  words  whose 
outline  and  salient  points  Pascal  did  not  disdain  to  borrow: 
"  But  whoever  shall  represent  to  his  fancy,  as  in  a  picture,  that 
great  image  of  our  mother  nature,  portrayed  in  her  full  maj- 
esty and  lustre,  whoever  in  her  face  shall  read  so  general  and  so 
constant  a  variety,  whoever  shall  observe  himself  in  that  figure, 
and  not  himself  but  a  whole  kingdom,  no  bigger  than  the  least 
touch  or  prick  of  a  pencil  in  comparison  of  the  whole,  that 
man  alone  is  able  to  value  things  according  to  their  true  esti- 
mate and  grandeur." 

Thus  Montaigne  gives  us  a  lesson,  a  useless  lesson,  but  I 
state  it  all  the  same,  because  among  the  many  unprofitable 
ones  that  have  been  written  down,  it  is  perhaps  of  greater 
worth  than  most.  T  do  not  mean  to  underrate  the  gravity  of 
the  circumstances  in  which  France  is  just  now  involved,  for  I 
believe  there  is  pressing  need  to  bring  together  all  the  energy, 
prudence,  and  courage  she  possesses  in  order  that  the  country 
may  come  out  with  honor.^     However,  let  us  reflect,  and  re- 

'  This  essay  appeared  April  28,  1851. 


MONTAIGNE  377 

member  that,  leaving  aside  the  Empire,  which  as  regards  in- 
ternal affairs  was  a  period  of  calm,  and  before  1812  of  pros- 
perity, we  who  utter  such  loud  complaints,  lived  in  peace  from 
1815  to  1830,  fifteen  long  years;  that  the  three  days  of  July 
only  inaugurated  another  order  of  things  that  for  eighteen 
years  guaranteed  peace  and  industrial  prosperity ;  in  all,  thirty- 
two  years  of  repose.  Stormy  days  came ;  tempests  burst,  and 
will  doubtless  burst  again.  Let  us  learn  how  to  live  through 
them,  but  do  not  let  us  cry  out  every  day,  as  we  are  disposed 
to  do,  that  never  under  the  sun  were  such  storms  known  as  we 
are  enduring.  To  get  away  from  the  present  state  of  feeling, 
to  restore  lucidity  and  proportion  to  our  judgments,  let  us 
read  every  evening  a  page  of  Montaigne. 

A  criticism  of  Montaigne  on  the  men  of  his  day  struck  me, 
and  it  bears  equally  well  on  those  of  ours.  Our  philosopher 
says  somewhere  that  he  knows  a  fair  number  of  men  possess- 
ing various  good  qualities — one,  intelligence ;  another,  heart ; 
another,  address,  conscience  or  knowledge,  or  skill  in  lan- 
guages, each  has  his  share :  "  but  of  a  great  man  as  a  whole, 
having  so  many  good  qualities  together,  or  one  with  such  a 
degree  of  excellence  that  we  ought  to  admire  him,  or  compare 
him  with  those  we  honor  in  the  past,  my  fortune  has  never 
shown  me  one."  He  afterwards  made  an  exception  in  favor  of 
his  friend  i^tienne  de  la  Boetie,  but  he  belonged  to  the  com- 
pany of  great  men  dead  before  attaining  maturity,  and  showing 
promise  without  having  time  to  fulfil  it.  Montaigne's  criticism 
called  up  a  smile.  He  did  not  see  a  true  and  wholly  great  man 
in  his  time,  the  age  of  L'Hopital,  CoHgny,  and  the  Guises. 
Well !  how  does  ours  seem  to  you  ?  We  have  as  many  great 
men  as  in  Montaigne's  time,  one  distinguished  for  his  intellect, 
another  for  his  heart,  a  third  for  skill,  some  (a  rare  thing)  for 
conscience,  many  for  knowledge  and  language.  But  we  too 
lack  the  perfect  man,  and  he  is  greatly  to  be  desired.  One  of 
the  most  intelligent  observers  of  our  day  recognized  and  pro- 
claimed it  some  years  ago :  "  Our  age,"  said  M.  de  Remusat, 
"  is  wanting  in  great  men."  ^ 

How  did  Montaigne  conduct  himself  in  his  duties  as  first 
magistrate  of  a  great  city?  If  we  take  him  literally  and  on 
a  hasty  first  glance,  we  should  believe  he  discharged  them 

■  "  Essaii  de  Philosophic,"  vol.  i.  p.  aa.  • 

Q— Vol.  60 


378  SAINTE-BEUVE 

slackly  and  languidly.  Did  not  Horace,  doing  the  honors  to 
himself,  say  that  in  war  he  one  day  let  his  shield  fall  (relicta  non 
bene  parmula)  ?  We  must  not  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  take 
too  literally  the  men  of  taste  who  have  a  horror  of  over-estimat- 
ing themselves.  Minds  of  a  fine  quality  are  more  given  to  vig- 
ilance and  to  action  than  they  are  apt  to  confess.  The  man  who 
boasts  and  makes  a  great  noise,  will,  I  am  almost  sure,  be 
less  brave  in  the  combat  than  Horace,  and  less  vigilant  at  the 
council  board  than  Montaigne. 

On  entering  office  Montaigne  was  careful  to  warn  the  al- 
dermen of  Bordeaux  not  to  expect  to  find  in  him  more  than 
there  really  was  ;  he  presented  himself  to  them  without  affecta- 
tion. "  I  represented  to  them  faithfully  and  conscientiously  all 
that  I  felt  myself  to  be — a  man  without  memory,  without  vigi- 
lance, without  experience,  and  without  energy ;  but  also,  with- 
out hate,  without  ambition,  without  avarice,  and  without  vio- 
lence." He  should  be  sorry,  while  taking  the  affairs  of  the 
town  in  hand,  that  his  feelings  should  be  so  strongly  affected  as 
those  of  his  worthy  father  had  been,  who  in  the  end  had  lost 
his  place  and  health.  The  eager  and  ardent  pledge  to  satisfy 
an  impetuous  desire  was  not  his  method.  His  opinion  was 
"  that  you  must  lend  yourself  to  others,  and  only  give  yourself 
to  yourself."  And  repeating  his  thought,  according  to  his 
custom  in  all  kinds  of  metaphors  and  picturesque  forms,  he 
said  again  that  if  he  sometimes  allowed  himself  to  be  urged  to 
the  management  of  other  men's  affairs,  he  promised  to  take 
them  in  hand,  not  "  into  my  lungs  and  liver."  We  are  thus 
forewarned,  we  know  what  to  expect.  The  mayor  and  Mon- 
taigne were  two  distinct  persons ;  under  his  role  and  office 
he  reserved  to  himself  a  certain  freedom  and  secret  security. 
He  continued  to  judge  things  in  his  own  fashion  and  impar- 
tially, although  acting  loyally  for  the  cause  confided  to  him. 
He  was  far  from  approving  or  even  excusing  all  he  saw  in  his 
party,  and  he  could  judge  his  adversaries  and  say  of  them :  "  He 
did  that  thing  wickedly,  and  this  virtuously."  "  I  would  have," 
he  added,  "  matters  go  well  on  our  side ;  but  if  they  do  not,  I 
shall  not  run  mad.  I  am  heartily  for  the  right  party ;  but  I  do 
not  affect  to  be  taken  notice  of  for  an  especial  enemy  to  others." 
And  he  entered  into  some  details  and  applications  which  at 
that  time  were  piquant.    Let  us  remark,  however,  in  order  to 


MONTAIGNE  379 

explain  and  justify  his  somewhat  extensive  profession  of  im- 
partiality, that  the  chiefs  of  the  party  then  in  evidence,  the 
three  Henris,  were  famous  and  conside'rable  men  on  several 
counts :  Henri,  Duke  of  Guise,  head  of  the  League ;  Henri, 
King  of  Navarre,  leader  of  the  Opposition ;  and  the  King 
Henri  HI,  in  whose  name  Montaigne  was  mayor,  who  wavered 
between  the  two.  When  parties  have  neither  chief  nor  head, 
when  they  are  known  by  the  body  only,  that  is  to  say  in  their 
hideous  and  brutal  reality,  it  is  more  difficult  and  also  more 
hazardous  to  be  just  towards  them  and  to  assign  to  each  its 
share  of  action. 

The  principle  which  guided  him  in  his  administration  was  to 
look  only  at  the  fact,  at  the  result,  and  to  grant  nothing  to 
noise  and  outward  show:  "How  much  more  a  good  effect 
makes  a  noise,  so  much  I  abate  of  the  goodness  of  it."  For  it 
is  always  to  be  feared  that  it  was  more  performed  for  the  sake 
of  the  noise  than  upon  the  account  of  goodness :  "  Being  ex- 
posed upon  the  stall,  'tis  half  sold."  That  was  not  Montaigne's 
way :  he  made  no  show ;  he  managed  men  and  affairs  as  quiet- 
ly as  he  could ;  he  employed  in  a  manner  useful  to  all  alike 
the  gifts  of  sincerity  and  conciliation ;  the  personal  attraction 
with  which  nature  endowed  him  was  a  quality  of  the  highest 
value  in  the  management  of  men.  He  preferred  to  warn  men 
of  evil  rather  than  to  take  on  himself  the  honor  of  repress- 
ing it :  "  Is  there  any  one  who  desires  to  be  sick  that  he  may 
see  his  physician's  practice?  And  would  not  that  physician 
deserve  to  be  whipped  who  should  wish  the  plague  amongst 
us  that  he  might  put  his  art  into  practice?  "  Far  from  desir- 
ing that  trouble  and  disorder  in  the  affairs  of  the  city  should 
rouse  and  honor  his  government,  he  had  ever  willingly,  he 
said,  contributed  all  he  could  to  their  tranquillity  and  ease. 
He  is  not  of  those  whom  municipal  honors  intoxicate  and 
elate,  those  "  dignities  of  office  "  as  he  called  them,  and  of 
which  all  the  noise  "  goes  from  one  cross-road  to  another." 
If  he  was  a  man  desirous  of  fame,  he  recognized  that  it  was  of 
a  kind  greater  than  that.  I  do  not  know,  however,  if  even  in  a 
vaster  field  he  would  have  changed  his  method  and  manner  of 
proceeding.  To  do  good  for  the  public  imperceptibly  would 
always  seem  to  him  the  ideal  of  skill  and  the  culminating  point 
of  happiness.    "  He  who  will  not  thank  me,"  he  said,  "  for  the 


380  SAINTE-BEUVE 

order  and  quiet  calm  that  have  accompanied  my  administration, 
cannot,  however,  deprive  me  of  the  share  that  belongs  to  me 
by  the  title  of  my  good  fortune."  And  he  is  inexhaustible  in 
describing  in  lively  and  graceful  expressions  the  kinds  of  ef- 
fective and  imperceptible  services  he  believed  he  had  rendered 
— services  greatly  superior  to  noisy  and  glorious  deeds :  "  Ac- 
tions which  come  from  the  workman's  hand  carelessly  and 
noiselessly  have  most  charm,  that  some  honest  man  chooses 
later  and  brings  from  their  obscurity  to  thrust  them  into  the 
light  for  their  own  sake."  Thus  fortune  served  Montaigne  to 
perfection,  and  even  in  his  administration  of  affairs,  in  difficult 
conjunctures,  he  never  had  to  belie  his  maxim,  nor  to  step  very 
far  out  of  the  way  of  life  he  had  planned :  "  For  my  part  I 
commend  a  gliding,  solitary,  and  silent  life."  He  reached  the 
end  of  his  magistracy  almost  satisfied  with  himself,  having  ac- 
complished what  he  had  promised  himself,  and  much  more 
than  he  had  promised  others. 

The  letter  lately  discovered  by  M.  Horace  de  Viel-Castel 
corroborates  the  chapter  in  which  Montaigne  exhibits  and 
criticises  himself  in  the  period  of  his  public  life.  "  That  letter," 
says  M.  Payen,  "  is  entirely  on  affairs.  Montaigne  is  mayor; 
Bordeaux,  lately  disturbed,  seems  threatened  by  fresh  agita- 
tions ;  the  King's  lieutenant  is  away.  It  is  Wednesday,  May 
22,  1585 ;  it  is  night,  Montaigne  is  wakeful,  and  writes  to  the 
governor  of  the  province."  The  letter,  which  is  of  too  special 
and  local  an  interest  to  be  inserted  here,  may  be  summed  up 
in  these  words:  Montaigne  regretted  the  absence  of  Marshal 
de  Matignon,  and  feared  the  consequences  of  its  prolongation ; 
he  was  keeping,  and  would  continue  to  keep,  him  acquainted 
with  all  that  was  going  on,  and  begged  him  to  return  as  soon 
as  his  circumstances  would  permit.  "  We  are  looking  after 
our  gates  and  guards,  and  a  little  more  carefully  in  your  ab- 
sence. ...  If  anything  important  and  fresh  occurs,  I  shall 
send  you  a  messenger  immediately,  so  that  if  you  hear  no 
news  from  me,  you  may  consider  that  nothing  has  happened." 
He  begs  M.  de  Matignon  to  remember,  however,  that  he  might 
not  have  time  to  warn  him,  "  entreating  you  to  consider  that 
such  movements  are  usually  so  sudden,  that  if  they  do  occur 
they  will  take  me  by  the  throat  without  any  warning."  Be- 
sides, he  will  do  everything  to  ascertain  the  march  of  events 


MONTAIGNE  381 

beforelian'd.  "  I  will  do  what  I  can  to  hear  news  from  all 
parts,  and  to  that  end  shall  visit  and  observe  the  inclinations 
of  all  sorts  of  men."  Lastly,  after  keeping  the  marshal  in- 
formed of  everything,  of  the  least  rumors  abroad  in  the  city, 
he  pressed  him  to  return,  assuring  him  "  that  we  spare  neither 
our  care,  nor,  if  need  be,  our  lives  to  preserve  everything  in 
obedience  to  the  King."  Montaigne  was  never  prodigal  of 
protestations  and  praises,  and  what  with  others  was  a  mere 
form  of  speech  was  with  him  a  real  undertaking  and  the 
truth. 

Things,  however,  became  worse  and  worse :  civil  war  broke 
out ;  friendly  or  hostile  parties  (the  difference  was  not  great) 
infested  the  country.  Montaigne,  who  went  to  his  country, 
house  as  often  as  he  could,  whenever  the  duties  of  his  office, 
which  was  drawing  near  its  term,  did  not  oblige  him  to  be  in 
Bordeaux,  was  exposed  to  every  sort  of  insult  and  outrage. 
"  I  underwent,"  he  said,  "  the  inconveniences  that  moderation 
brings  along  with  it  in  such  a  disease.  I  was  pitied  on  all 
hands ;  to  the  Ghibelline  I  was  a  Guelph,  and  to  the  Guelph 
a  Ghibelline."  In  the  midst  of  his  personal  grievances  he 
could  disengage  and  raise  his  thoughts  to  reflections  on  the 
public  misfortunes  and  on  the  degradation  of  men's  characters. 
Considering  closely  the  disorder  of  parties,  and  all  the  abject 
and  wretched  things  which  developed  so  quickly,  he  was 
ashamed  to  see  leaders  of  renown  stoop  and  debase  themselves 
by  cowardly  complacency;  for  in  those  circumstances  we 
know,  like  him,  "  that  in  the  word  of  command  to  march,  draw 
up,  wheel,  and  the  like,  we  obey  him  indeed ;  but  all  the  rest 
is  dissolute  and  free."  "  It  pleases  me,"  said  Montaigne  ironi- 
cally, "  to  observe  how  much  pusillanimity  and  cowardice  there 
is  in  ambition ;  by  how  abject  and  servile  ways  it  must  arrive 
at  its  end."  Despising  ambition  as  he  did,  he  was  not  sorry 
to  see  it  unmasked  by  such  practices  and  degraded  in  his  sight. 
However,  his  goodness  of  heart  overcoming  his  pride  and  con- 
tempt, he  adds  sadly,  "  it  displeases  me  to  see  good  and  gen- 
erous natures,  and  that  are  capable  of  justice,  every  day  cor- 
rupted in  the  management  and  command  of  this  confusion. 
.  .  .  We  had  ill-contrived  souls  enough  without  spoiling 
those  that  were  generous  and  good."  He  rather  sought  in 
that  misfortune  an  opportunity  and  motive  for  fortifying  and 


382  SAINTE-BEUVE 

Strengthening  himself.  Attacked  one  by  one  by  many  dis- 
agreeables and  evils,  which  he  would  have  endured  more  cheer- 
fully in  a  heap — that  is  to  say,  all  at  once — pursued  by  war, 
disease,  by  all  the  plagues  (July,  1585),  in  the  course  things 
were  taking,  he  already  asked  himself  to  whom  he  and  his 
could  have  recourse,  of  whom  he  could  ask  shelter  and  sub- 
sistence for  his  old  age ;  and  having  looked  and  searched  thor- 
oughly all  around,  he  found  himself  actually  destitute  and 
ruined.  For,  "  to  let  a  man's  self  fall  plumb  down,  and  from 
so  great  a  height,  it  ought  to  be  in  the  arms  of  a  solid,  vigorous, 
and  fortunate  friendship.  They  are  very  rare,  if  there  be  any." 
Speaking  in  such  a  manner,  we  perceive  that  La  Boetie  had 
been  some  time  dead.  Then  he  felt  that  he  must  after  all  rely 
on  himself  in  his  distress,  and  must  gain  strength;  now  or 
never  was  the  time  to  put  into  practice  the  lofty  lessons  he 
spent  his  life  in  collecting  from  the  books  of  the  philosophers. 
He  took  heart  again,  and  attained  all  the  height  of  his  virtue : 
"  In  an  ordinary  and  quiet  time,  a  man  prepares  himself  for 
moderate  and  common  accidents ;  but  in  the  confusion  where- 
in we  have  been  for  these  thirty  years,  every  Frenchman, 
whether  in  particular  or  in  general,  sees  himself  every  hour 
upon  the  point  of  the  total  ruin  and  overthrow  of  his  fortune.'* 
And  far  from  being  discouraged  and  cursing  fate  for  causing 
him  to  be  born  in  so  stormy  an  age,  he  suddenly  congratulated 
himself:  "  Let  us  thank  fortune  that  has  not  made  us  live  in  an 
effeminate,  idle,  and  languishing  age."  Since  the  curiosity  of 
wise  men  seeks  the  past  for  disturbances  in  States  in  order  to 
learn  the  secrets  of  history,  and,  as  we  should  say,  the  whole 
physiology  of  the  body  social,  "  so  does  my  curiosity,"  he  de- 
clares, "  make  me  in  some  sort  please  myself  with  seeing  with 
my  own  eyes  this  notable  spectacle  of  our  public  death,  its 
forms  and  symptoms;  and,  seeing  I  could  not  hinder  it,  am 
content  to  be  destined  to  assist  in  it,  and  thereby  to  instruct 
myself."  I  shall  not  suggest  a  consolation  of  that  sort  to  most 
people;  the  greater  part  of  mankind  does  not  oossess  the 
heroic  and  eager  curiosity  of  Empedocles  and  the  elder  Pliny, 
the  two  intrepid  men  who  went  straight  to  the  volcanoes  and 
the  disturbances  of  nature  to  examine  them  at  close  quarters,  at 
the  risk  of  destruction  and  death.  But  to  a  man  of  Montaigne's 
nature,  the  thought  of  that  stoical  observation  gave  him  con- 


montaic;ne  383 

solation  even  amid  real  evils.  Considering  the  condition  of 
false  peace  and  doubtful  truce,  the  regime  of  dull  and  pro- 
found corruption  which  had  preceded  the  last  disturbances,  he 
almost  congratulated  himself  on  seeing  their  cessation ;  for 
"it  was,"  he  said  of  the  regime  of  Henri  III,  "a  universal 
juncture  of  particular  members,  rotten  to  emulation  of  one  an- 
other, and  the  most  of  them  with  inveterate  ulcers,  that  neither 
required  nor  admitted  of  any  cure.  This  conclusion  therefore 
did  really  more  animate  than  depress  me."  Note  that  his 
health,  usually  delicate,  is  here  raised  to  the  level  of  his  moral- 
ity, although  what  it  had  suffered  through  the  various  disturb- 
ances might  have  been  enough  to  undermine  it.  He  had  the 
satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  had  some  hold  against  fortune, 
and  that  it  would  take  a  greater  shock  still  to  crush  him. 

Another  consideration,  humbler  and  more  humane,  upheld 
him  in  his  troubles,  the  consolation  arising  from  a  common 
misfortune,  a  misfortune  shared  by  all,  and  the  sight  of  the 
courage  of  others.  The  people,  especially  the  real  people,  they 
who  are  victims  and  not  robbers,  the  peasants  of  his  district, 
moved  him  by  the  manner  in  which  they  endured  the  same,  or 
even  worse,  troubles  than  his.  The  disease  or  plague  which 
raged  at  that  time  in  the  country  pressed  chiefly  on  the  poor; 
Montaigne  learned  from  them  resignation  and  the  practice  of 
philosophy.  "  Let  us  look  down  upon  the  poor  people  that  we 
see  scattered  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  prone  and  intent  upon 
their  business,  that  neither  know  Aristotle  nor  Cato,  example 
nor  precept.  Even  from  these  does  nature  every  day  extract 
effects  of  constancy  and  patience,  more  pure  and  manly  than 
those  we  so  inquisitively  study  in  the  schools."  And  he  goes 
on  to  describe  them  working  to  the  bitter  end,  even  in  their 
grief,  even  in  disease,  until  their  strength  failed  them.  "  He 
that  is  now  digging  in  my  garden  has  this  morning  buried  his 
father,  or  his  son.  .  .  .  They  never  keep  their  beds  but  to 
die."  The  whole  chapter  is  fine,  pathetic,  to  the  point,  evincing 
noble,  stoical  elevation  of  mind,  and  also  the  cheerful  and 
affable  disposition  which  Montaigne  said,  with  truth,  was  his 
by  inheritance,  and  in  which  he  had  been  nourished.  There 
could  be  nothing  better  as  regards  "  consolation  in  public 
calamities,"  except  a  chapter  of  some  not  more  human,  but 
of  some  truly  divine  book,  in  which  the  hand  of  God  should  bie 


384  SAINTE-BEUVE 

everywhere  visible,  not  perfunctorily,  as  with  Montaigne,  but 
actually  and  lovingly  present.  In  fact,  the  consolation  Mon- 
taigne gives  himself  and  others  is  perhaps  as  lofty  and  beauti- 
ful as  human  consolation  without  prayer  can  be. 

He  wrote  the  chapter,  the  twelfth  of  the  third  book,  in  the 
midst  of  the  evils  he  described,  and  before  they  were  ended. 
He  concluded  it  in  his  graceful  and  poetical  way  with  a  collec- 
tion of  examples,  "  a  heap  of  foreign  flowers,"  to  which  he 
furnished  only  the  thread  for  fastening  them  together. 

There  is  Montaigne  to  the  life ;  no  matter  how  seriously  he 
spoke,  it  was  always  with  the  utmost  charm.  To  form  an  opin- 
ion on  his  style  you  have  only  to  open  him  indifferently  at  any 
page  and  listen  to  his  talk  on  any  subject ;  there  is  none  that 
he  did  not  enliven  and  make  suggestive.  In  the  chapter  "  Of 
Liars,"  for  instance,  after  enlarging  on  his  lack  of  memory  and 
giving  a  list  of  reasons  by  which  he  might  console  himself,  he 
suddenly  added  this  fresh  and  delightful  reason,  that,  thanks 
to  his  faculty  for  forgetting,  "  the  places  I  revisit,  and  the 
books  I  read  over  again,  always  smile  upon  me  with  a  fresh 
novelty."  It  is  thus  that  on  every  subject  he  touched  he  was 
continually  new,  and  created  sources  of  freshness. 

Montesquieu,  in  a  memorable  exclamation,  said :  "  The  four 
great  poets,  Plato,  Malebranche,  Shaftesbury,  Montaigne !  " 
How  true  it  is  of  Montaigne !  No  French  writer,  including  the 
poets  proper,  had  so  lofty  an  idea  of  poetry  as  he  had.  "  From 
my  earliest  childhood,"  he  said,  "  poetry  had  power  over  me  to 
transport  and  transpierce  me."  He  considered,  and  therein 
shows  penetration,  that  "  we  have  more  poets  than  judges  and 
interpreters  of  poetry.  It  is  easier  to  write  than  to  under- 
stand." In  itself  and  its  pure  beauty  his  poetry  defies  defi- 
nition ;  whoever  desired  to  recognize  it  at  a  glance  and  discern 
of  what  it  actually  consisted  would  see  no  more  than  "  the 
brilliance  of  a  flash  of  lightning."  In  the  constitution  and  con- 
tinuity of  his  style,  Montaigne  is  a  writer  very  rich  in  animated, 
bold  similes,  naturally  fertile  in  metaphors  that  are  never  de- 
tached from  the  thought,  but  that  seize  it  in  its  very  centre,  in 
its  interior,  that  join  and  bind  it.  In  that  respect,  fully  obeying 
his  own  genius,  he  has  gone  beyond  and  sometimes  exceeded 
the  genius  of  language.  His  concise,  vigorous,  and  always 
forcible  style,  by  its  poignancy,  emphasizes  and  repeats  the 


MONTAIGNE  385 

meaning.  It  may  be  said  of  his  style  that  it  is  a  continual 
^epigram,  or  an  ever-renewed  metaphor,  a  style  that  has  only 
been  successfully  employed  by  the  French  once,  by  Montaigne 
himself.  If  we  wanted  to  imitate  him,  supposing  we  had  the 
power  and  were  naturally  fitted  for  it — if  we  desired  to  write 
with  his  severity,  exact  proportion,  and  diverse  continuity  of 
figures  and  turns — it  would  be  necessary  to  force  our  language 
to  be  more  powerful,  and  poetically  more  complete,  than  is 
usually  our  custom.  Style  d  la  Montaigne,  consistent,  varied 
in  the  series  and  assortment  of  the  metaphors,  exacts  the  crea- 
tion of  a  portion  of  the  tissue  itself  to  hold  them.  It  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  in  places  the  woof  should  be  enlarged  and 
extended,  in  order  to  weave  into  it  the  metaphor ;  but  in  de- 
fining him  I  come  almost  to  write  like  him.  The  French  lan- 
guage, French  prose,  which  in  fact  always  savors  more  or  less 
of  conversation,  does  not,  naturally,  possess  the  resources  and 
the  extent  of  canvas  necessary  for  a  continued  picture :  by  the 
side  of  an  animated  metaphor  it  will  often  exhibit  a  sudden 
lacuna  and  some  weak  places.  In  filling  this  by  boldness  and 
invention  as  Montaigne  did,  in  creating,  in  imagining  the  ex- 
pression and  locution  that  is  wanting,  our  prose  should  appear 
equally  finished.  Style  d  la  Montaigne  would,  in  many  re- 
spects, be  openly  at  war  with  that  of  Voltaire.  It  could  only 
come  into  being  and  flourish  in  the  full  freedom  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  in  a  frank,  ingenious,  jovial,  keen,  brave,  and 
refined  mind,  of  a  unique  stamp,  that  even  for  that  time,  seemed 
free  and  somewhat  licentious,  and  that  was  inspired  and  em- 
boldened, but  not  intoxicated  by  the  pure  and  direct  spirit  of 
ancient  sources. 

Such  as  he  is,  Montaigne  is  the  French  Horace ;  he  is  Hora- 
tian  in  the  groundwork,  often  in  the  form  and  expression,  al- 
though in  that  he  sometimes  approaches  Seneca.  His  book 
is  a  treasure-house  of  moral  observations  and  of  experience ;  at 
whatever  page  it  is  opened,  and  in  whatever  condition  of  mind, 
some  wise  thought  expressed  in  a  striking  and  enduring  fash- 
ion is  certain  to  be  found.  It  will  at  once  detach  itself  and  en- 
grave itself  on  the  mind,  a  beautiful  meaning  in  full  and  forci- 
ble words,  in  one  vigorous  line,  familiar  or  great.  The  whole 
of  his  book,  said  Etienne  Pasquier,  is  a  real  seminary  of  beauti- 
ful and  remarkable  sentences,  and  they  come  in  so  much  the 


380  SAINTE-BEUVE 

better  that  they  run  and  hasten  on  without  thrusting  them- 
selves into  notice.  There  is  something  for  every  age,  for  every 
hour  of  Hfe :  you  cannot  read  in  it  for  any  time  without  having 
the  mind  filled  and  hned  as  it  were,  or,  to  put  it  better,  fully 
armed  and  clothed.  We  have  just  seen  how  much  useful  coun- 
sel and  actual  consolation  it  contains  for  an  honorable  man, 
born  for  private  life,  and  fallen  on  times  of  disturbance  and 
revolution.  To  this  I  shall  add  the  counsel  he  gave  those  who, 
like  myself  and  many  men  of  my  acquaintance,  suffer  from  po- 
litical disturbances  without  in  any  way  provoking  them,  or 
believing  ourselves  capable  of  averting  them.  Montaigne,  as 
Horace  would  have  done,  counsels  them,  while  apprehending 
everything  from  afar  ofif,  not  to  be  too  much  preoccupied  with 
such  matters  in  advance ;  to  take  advantage  to  the  end  of  pleas- 
ant moments  and  bright  intervals.  Stroke  on  stroke  come  his 
piquant  and  wise  similes,  and  he  concludes,  to  my  thinking, 
with  the  most  delightful  one  of  all,  and  one,  besides,  entirely 
appropriate  and  seasonable :  it  is  folly  and  fret,  he  said,  "  to 
take  out  your  furred  gown  at  Saint  John  because  you  will  want 
it  at  Christmas." 


BYRON    AND    GOETHE 


BY 


GIUSEPPE    MAZZINI 


GIUSEPPE   MAZZINI 

1805— 1872 

The  life  of  Giuseppe  Mazzini  was  devoted  primarily  to  the  cause  of 
Italian  liberation,  and  only  secondarily  to  literature,  but  he  achieved 
a  great  reputation  in  both  fields  of  activity.  He  vi^as  born  in  Genoa 
in  1805,  and  from  his  earliest  childhood  he  was  filled  with  a  longing 
to  see  Italy  become  something  more  than  "  a  geographical  expression," 
and  his  countrymen  free.  While  a  student  at  the  University  of  Genoa 
he  gathered  around  him  a  group  of  ardent  young  men  whom  he  fired 
with  his  own  enthusiasm.  In  1827  Mazzini  joined  the  Carbonari,  and 
soon  became  a  prominent  member  of  this  famous  secret  society.  In 
1830  he  was  arrested  for  conspiracy  and  confined  in  the  fortress  of 
Savona,  the  governor  of  Genoa  informing  his  father  that  "  the  Gov- 
ernment was  not  fond  of  young  men  of  talent,  the  subject  of  whose 
musings  is  unknown  to  it."  He  was  finally  acquitted  of  the  charges 
brought  against  him  by  the  Senate  at  Turin,  but  while  in  his  cell  he 
conceivAi  the  plan  of  organizing  the  new  association  of  "  Young 
Italy."  This  organization  became  at  once  vigorously  active,  its  head- 
quarters being  established  at  Marseilles.  In  1831  he  issued  the  journal 
of  "  Young  Italy,"  to  which  he  was  the  principal  contributor.  He 
published  at  this  time  numerous  essays  and  appeals  on  the  subject  of 
Italian  liberty.  In  1832  Mazzini  was  exiled  from  France,  but  remained 
another  year  at  Marseilles  in  disguise,  planning  a  rising  in  Piedmont, 
which  proved  abortive  and  resulted  in  the  death  of  most  of  those 
implicated.  In  1834  another  attempt  at  insurrection  was  made,  the 
insurrectionists  entering  Italy  from  Switzerland.  This,  too,  failed 
completely.  Mazzini  remained  two  years  longer  in  Switzerland,  but 
was  finally  expelled  from  that  country  and  forced  to  flee  to  London, 
where  he  lived  for  a  long  time  in  the  most  abject  poverty,  often  sub- 
sisting on  loans  at  usurious  rates  of  interest.  It  was  during  this  period 
that  several  of  the  most  important  of  his  essays  were  written,  those 
on  "  Lamennais  "  and  on  "  Byron  and  Goethe  "  in  1839,  the  two  on 
Carlyle  in  1843,  and  that  on  the  minor  works  of  Dante  in  1844. 

In  1848,  "  the  year  of  revolutions,"  Mazzini  hastened  to  Italy.  In 
1849  the  Republic  was  proclaimed,  with  Mazzini  as  the  guiding  spirit 
of  the  revolt.  After  the  battle  of  Novara  Mazzini  became  the  chief 
of  a  triumvirate,  and  distinguished  himself  during  the  siege  of  Rome  by 
the  French.  In  1857  he  participated  in  another  abortive  insurrection. 
He  then  returned  to  England,  where  he  had  many  friends  and  was 
assured  of  a  comfortable  living  by  his  pen.  His  health  had  been 
shattered  by  his  violent  eflforts  during  the  siege  of  Rorne,  but  his  mind 
remained  clear  and  active,  and  he  wrote  during  this  period  many 
notable  papers,  chiefly  political.  His  ''  Duties  of  Man  "  and  "  Thoughts 
upon  Democracy  in  Europe  "  were  written  at  this  time.  In  1870  he 
took  part  in  an  insurrection  at  Palermo,  during  which  he  was  captured. 
He  was  released,  however,  by  a  general  amnesty,  but  banished  by  the 
Italian  Government  after  the  occupation  of  Rome.  He  died  in  1872 
at  Pisa,  and  the  honors  paid  him  at  his  funeral  assumed  the  nature 
of  a  national  demonstration. 


jSft. 


BYRON   AND   GOETHE 

I  STOOD  one  day  in  a  Swiss  village  at  the  foot  of  the  Jura, 
and  watched  the  coming  of  a  storm.  Heavy  black 
clouds,  their  edges  purpled  by  the  setting  sun,  were  rap- 
idly covering  the  loveliest  sky  in  Europe,  save  that  of  Italy. 
Thunder  growled  in  the  distance,  and  gusts  of  biting  wind 
were  driving  huge  drops  of  rain  over  the  thirsty  plain.  Look- 
ing upwards,  I  beheld  a  large  Alpine  falcon,  now  rising,  now 
sinking,  as  he  floated  bravely  in  the  very  midst  of  the  storm 
and  I  could  almost  fancy  that  he  strove  to  battle  with  it.  At 
every  fresh  peal  of  thunder,  the  noble  bird  bounded  higher 
aloft,  as  if  in  answering  defiance.  I  followed  him  with  my 
eyes  for  a  long  time,  until  he  disappeared  in  the  east.  On  the 
ground,  about  fifty  paces  beneath  me,  stood  a  stork ;  perfectly, 
tranquil  and  impassive  in  the  midst  of  the  warring  elements. 
Twice  or  thrice  she  turned  her  head  towards  the  quarter  from 
whence  the  wind  came,  with  an  indescribable  air  of  half  indif- 
ferent curiosity;  but  at  length  she  drew  up  one  of  her  long 
sinewy  legs,  hid  her  head  beneath  her  wing,  and  calmly  com- 
posed herself  to  sleep. 

I  thought  of  Byron  and  Goethe;  of  the  stormy  sky  that 
overhung  both ;  of  the  tempest-tossed  existence,  the  life-long 
struggle,  of  the  one,  and  the  calm  of  the  other ;  and  of  the  two 
mighty  sources  of  poetry  exhausted  and  closed  by  them. 

Byron  and  Goethe — the  two  names  that  predominate,  and, 
come  what  may,  ever  will  predominate,  over  our  every  recol- 
lection of  the  fifty  years  that  have  passed  away.  They  rule; 
the  master-minds,  I  might  almost  say  the  tyrants,  of  a  whole 
period  of  poetry ;  brilliant,  yet  sad ;  glorious  in  youth  and  dar- 
ing, yet  cankered  by  the  worm  i'  the  bud,  despair.  They  are 
the  two  representative  poets  of  two  great  schools ;  and  around 
them  we  are  compelled  to  group  all  the  lesser  minds  which 
contributed  to  render  the  era  illustrious.    The  qualities  which 

389 


39©  MAZZINI 

adorn  and  distinguish  their  works  are  to  be  found,  although 
more  thinly  scattered,  in  other  poets  their  contemporaries ;  still 
theirs  are  the  names  that  involuntarily  rise  to  our  lips  when- 
ever we  seek  to  characterize  the  tendencies  of  the  age  in  which 
they  lived.  Their  genius  pursued  different,  even  opposite 
routes ;  and  yet  very  rarely  do  our  thoughts  turn  to  either  with- 
out evoking  the  image  of  the  other,  as  a  sort  of  necessary  com- 
plement to  the  first.  The  eyes  of  Europe  were  fixed  upon  the 
pair,  as  the  spectators  gaze  on  two  mighty  wrestlers  in  the 
same  arena ;  and  they,  like  noble  and  generous  adversaries,  ad- 
mired, praised,  and  held  out  the  hand  to  each  other.  Many 
poets  have  followed  in  their  footsteps ;  none  have  been  so 
popular.  Others  have  found  judges  and  critics  who  have  ap- 
preciated them  calmly  and  impartially ;  not  so  they :  for  them 
there  have  been  only  enthusiasts  or  enemies,  wreaths  or  stones  ; 
and  when  they  vanished  into  the  vast  night  that  envelops  and 
transforms  alike  men  and  things — silence  reigned  around  their 
tombs.  Little  by  little,  poetry  had  passed  away  from  our 
w^orld,  and  it  seemed  as  if  their  last  sigh  had  extinguished  the 
sacred  flame. 

A  reaction  has  now  commenced ;  good,  in  so  far  as  it  reveals 
a  desire  for  and  promise  of  new  life  ;  evil,  in  so  far  as  it  betrays 
narrow  views,  a  tendency  to  injustice  towards  departed  genius, 
and  the  absence  of  any  fixed  rule  or  principle  to  guide  our  ap- 
preciation of  the  past.  Human  judgment,  like  Luther's 
drunken  peasant,  when  saved  from  falling  on  one  side,  too 
often  topples  over  on  the  other.  The  reaction  against  Goethe, 
in  his  own  country  especially,  which  was  courageously  and 
justly  begun  by  Menzel  during  his  lifetime,  has  been  carried 
to  exaggeration  since  his  death.  Certain  social  opinions,  to 
which  I  myself  belong,  but  which,  although  founded  on  a 
sacred  principle,  should  not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  the 
impartiality  of  our  judgment,  have  weighed  heavily  in  the  bal- 
ance ;  and  many  young,  ardent,  and  enthusiastic  minds  of  our 
day  have  reiterated  with  Bonne  that  Goethe  is  the  worst  of 
despots ;  the  cancer  of  the  German  body. 

The  English  reaction  against  Byron — I  do  not  speak  of  that 
mixture  of  cant  and  stupidity  which  denies  the  poet  Ills  place 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  but  of  literary  reaction — has  shown  it- 
self still  more  unreasoning.     I  have  met  with  adorers  of  Shel- 


BYRON   AND   GOETHE  391 

ley  who  denied  the  poetic  genius  of  Byron ;  others  who  se- 
riously compared  his  poems  with  those  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
One  very  much  overrated  critic  writes  that  "  Byron  makes  man 
after  his  own  image,  and  woman  after  his  own  heart ;  the  one 
is  a  capricious  tyrant,  the  other  a  yielding  slave."  The  first 
forgot  the  verses  in  which  their  favorite  hailed 

"  The  pilgrim  of  eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  Uving  head  like  Heaven  is  bent;  "^ 

the  second,  that  after  the  appearance  of  "  The  Giaour  "  and 
"  Childe  Harold,"  Sir  Walter  Scott  renounced  writing  poetry.* 
The  last  forgot  that  while  he  was  quietly  writing  criticisms, 
Byron  was  dying  for  new-born  liberty  in  Greece.  All  judged, 
too  many  in  each  country  still  judge,  the  two  poets,  Byron  and 
Goethe,  after  an  absolute  type  of  the  beautiful,  the  true,  or  the 
false,  which  they  had  formed  in  their  own  minds ;  without  re- 
gard to  the  state  of  social  relations  as  they  were  or  are ;  without 
any  true  conception  of  the  destiny  or  mission  of  poetry,  or  of 
the  law  by  which  it,  and  every  other  artistic  manifestation  of 
human  life,  is  governed. 

There  is  no  absolute  type  on  earth:  the  absolute  exists  in 
the  Divine  Idea  alone ;  the  gradual  comprehension  of  which 
man  is  destined  to  attain ;  although  its  complete  realization  is 
impossible  on  earth ;  earthly  life  being  but  one  stage  of  the 
eternal  evolution  of  life,  manifested  in  thought  and  action; 
strengthened  by  all  the  achievements  of  the  past,  and  advanc- 
ing from  age  to  age  towards  a  less  imperfect  expression  of  that 
idea.  Our  earthly  life  is  one  phase  of  the  eternal  aspiration 
of  the  soul  towards  progress,  which  is  our  law ;  ascending  in 
increasing  power  and  purity  from  the  finite  towards  the  in- 
finite ;  from  the  real  towards  the  ideal ;  from  that  which  is, 
towards  that  which  is  to  come.  In  the  immense  storehouse 
of  the  past  evolutions  of  life  constituted  by  universal  tradition, 
and  in  the  prophetic  instinct  brooding  in  the  depths  of  the 
human  soul,  does  poetry  seek  inspiration.  It  changes  with 
the  times,  for  it  is  their  expression ;  it  is  transformed  with  so- 
ciety, for — consciously  or  unconsciously — it  sings  the  lay  of 
Humanity ;  although,  according  to  the  individual  bias  or  cir- 
cumstances of  the  singer,  it  assumes  the  hues  of  the  present, 

*  Adonais.  *  Lockhart. 


392 


MAZZINI 


or  of  the  future  in  course  of  elaboration,  and  foreseen  by  the 
inspiration  of  genius.  It  sings  now  a  dirge  and  now  a  cradle 
song;  it  initiates  or  sums  up. 

Byron  and  Goethe  summed  up.  Was  it  a  defect  in  them? 
No ;  it  was  the  law  of  the  times,  and  yet  society  at  the  present 
day,  twenty  years  after  they  have  ceased  to  sing,  assumes  to 
condemn  them  for  having  been  born  too  soon.  Happy  in- 
deed are  the  poets  whom  God  raises  up  at  the  commencement 
of  an  era,  under  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  A  series  of  gen- 
erations will  lovingly  repeat  their  verses,  and  attribute  to  them 
the  new  life  which  they  did  but  foresee  in  the  germ. 

Byron  and  Goethe  summed  up.  This  is  at  once  the  philo- 
sophical explanation  of  their  works,  and  the  secret  of  their  popu- 
larity. The  spirit  of  an  entire  epoch  of  the  European  world 
became  incarnate  in  them  ere  its  decease,  even  as — in  the  po- 
litical sphere — the  spirit  of  Greece  and  Rome  became  incar- 
nate before  death  in  Caesar  and  Alexander.  They  were  the 
poetic  expression  of  that  principle,  of  which  England  was  the 
economic,  France  the  political,  and  Germany  the  philosophic 
expression :  the  last  formula,  effort,  and  result,  of  a  society 
founded  on  the  principle  of  individuality.  That  epoch,  the 
mission  of  which  had  been,  first  through  the  labors  of  Greek 
philosophy,  and  afterwards  through  Christianity,  to  rehabili- 
tate, emancipate,  and  develop  individual  man — appears  to  have 
concentrated  in  them,  in  Fichte,  in  Adam  Smith,  and  in  the 
French  school  des  droits  de  Vhomme,  its  whole  energy  and 
power,  in  order  fully  to  represent  and  express  all  that  it  had 
achieved  for  mankind.  It  was  much  ;  but  it  was  not  the  whole ; 
and  therefore  it  was  doomed  to  pass  away.  The  epoch  of  in- 
dividuality was  deemed  near  the  goal ;  when  lo !  immense  hori- 
zons were  revealed ;  vast  unknown  lands  in  whose  untrodden 
forests  the  principle  of  individuality  was  an  insufficient  guide. 
By  the  long  and  painful  labors  of  that  epoch  the  human  un- 
known quantity  had  been  disengaged  from  the  various  quan- 
tities of  different  nature  by  which  it  had  been  surrounded ;  but 
only  to  be  left  weak,  isolated,  and  recoiling  in  terror  from  the 
solitude  in  which  it  stood.  The  political  schools  of  the  epoch 
had  proclaimed  the  sole  basis  of  civil  organization  to  be  the 
right  to  liberty  and  equality  (liberty  for  all),  but  they  had  en- 
countered social  anarchy  by  the  way.     The  philosophy  of  the 


BYRON   AND    GOETHE 


393 


epoch  had  asserted  the  sovereignty  of  the  human  Ego,  and  had 
ended  in  the  mere  adoration  of  fact,  in  Hegehan  immobihty. 
The  economy  of  the  epoch  imagined  it  had  organized  free  com- 
petition, while  it  had  but  organized  the  oppression  of  the  weak 
by  the  strong ;  of  labor  by  capital ;  of  poverty  by  wealth.  The 
poetry  of  the  epoch  had  represented  individuality  in  its  every 
phase ;  had  translated  in  sentiment  what  science  had  theoreti- 
cally demonstrated ;  and  it  had  encountered  the  void.  But  as 
society  at  last  discovered  that  the  destinies  of  the  race  were  not 
contained  in  a  mere  problem  of  liberty,  but  rather  in  the  har- 
monization of  liberty  with  association — so  did  poetry  discover 
that  the  life  it  had  hitherto  drawn  from  individuality  alone  was 
doomed  to  perish  for  want  of  aliment ;  and  that  its  future  ex- 
istence depended  on  enlarging  and  transforming  its  sphere. 
Both  society  and  poetry  uttered  a  cry  of  despair:  the  death- 
agony  of  a  form  of  society  produced  the  agitation  we  have  seen 
constantly  increasing  in  Europe  since  1815:  the  death-agony 
of  a  form  of  poetry  evoked  Byron  and  Goethe.  I  believe  this 
point  of  view  to  be  the  only  one  that  can  lead  us  to  a  useful 
and  impartial  appreciation  of  these  two  great  spirits. 

There  are  two  forms  of  individuality ;  the  expressions  of  its 
internal  and  external,  or — as  the  Germans  would  say — of  its 
subjective  and  objective  life.  Byron  was  the  poet  of  the  first, 
Goethe  of  the  last.  In  Byron  the  Ego  is  revealed  in  all  its 
pride  of  power,  freedom,  and  desire,  in  the  uncontrolled  pleni- 
tude of  all  its  faculties ;  inhaling  existence  at  every  pore,  eager 
to  seize  "  the  life  of  life."  The  world  around  him  neither  rules 
nor  tempers  him.  The  Byronian  Ego  aspires  to  rule  it;  but 
solely  for  dominion's  sake,  to  exercise  upon  it  the  Titanic  force 
of  his  will.  Accurately  speaking,  he  cannot  be  said  to  derive 
from  it  either  color,  tone,  or  image ;  for  it  is  he  who  colors ;  he 
who  sings ;  he  whose  image  is  everywhere  reflected  and  repro- 
duced. His  poetry  emanates  from  his  own  soul ;  to  be  thence 
diffused  upon  things  external ;  he  holds  his  state  in  the  centre 
of  the  universe,  and  from  thence  projects  the  light  radiating 
from  the  depths  of  his  own  mind ;  as  scorching  and  intense  as 
the  concentrated  solar  ray.  Hence  that  terrible  unity  which 
only  the  superficial  reader  could  mistake  for  monotony. 

Byron  appears  at  the  close  of  one  epoch,  and  before  the 
dawn  of  the  other;  in  the  midst  of  a  community  based  upon 


394  MAZZINI 

an  aristocracy  which  has  outlived  the  vigor  of  its  prime ;  sur- 
rounded by  a  Europe  containing  nothing  grand,  unless  it  be 
Napoleon  one  one  side  and  Pitt  on  the  other,  genius  degraded 
to  minister  o  egotism ;  intellect  bound  to  the  service  of  the 
past.  No  seer  exists  to  foretell  the  future:  belief  is  extinct; 
there  is  only  its  pretence :  prayer  is  no  more ;  there  is  only  a 
movement  of  the  lips  at  a  fixed  day  or  hour,  for  the  sake  of 
the  family,  or  what  is  called  the  people ;  love  is  no  more ;  desire 
has  taken  its  place ;  the  holy  warfare  of  ideas  is  abandoned ;  the 
conflict  is  that  of  interests.  The  worship  of  great  thoughts 
has  passed  away.  That  which  is,  raises  the  tattered  banner 
of  some  corpse-like  traditions ;  that  which  would  be,  hoists  only 
the  standard  of  physical  wants,  of  material  appetites:  around 
him  are  ruins,  beyond  him  the  desert;  the  horizon  is  a  blank. 
A  long  cry  of  suffering  and  indignation  bursts  from  the  heart 
of  Byron :  he  is  answered  by  anathemas.  He  departs ;  he  hur- 
ries through  Europe  in  search  of  an  ideal  to  adore ;  he  trav- 
erses it  distracted,  palpitating,  like  Mazeppa  on  the  wild 
horse ;  borne  onwards  by  a  fierce  desire ;  the  wolves  of  envy 
and  calumny  follow  in  pursuit.  He  visits  Greece ;  he  visit* 
Italy;  if  anywhere  a  lingering  spark  of  the  sacred  fire,  a  ray 
of  divine  poetry,  is  preserved,  it  must  be  there.  Nothing.  A 
glorious  past,  a  degraded  present ;  none  of  life's  poetry ;  no 
movement,  save  that  of  the  sufferer  turning  on  his  couch  to 
relieve  his  pain.  Byron,  from  the  solitude  of  his  exile,  turns 
his  eyes  again  towards  England ;  he  sings.  What  does  he 
sing?  What  springs  from  the  mysterious  and  unique  concep- 
tion which  rules,  one  would  say  in  spite  of  himself,  over  all 
that  escapes  him  in  his  sleepless  vigil?  The  funeral  hymn,  the 
death-song,  the  epitaph  of  the  aristocratic  idea ;  we  discovered 
it,  we  Continentalists ;  not  his  own  countrymen.  He  takes  his 
types  from  amongst  those  privileged  by  strength,  beauty,  and 
individual  power.  They  are  grand,  poetical,  heroic,  but  soli- 
tary ;  they  hold  no  communion  with  the  world  around  them, 
unless  it  be  to  rule  over  it ;  they  defy  alike  the  good  and  evil 
principle;  they  "will  bend  to  neither."  In  life  and  in  death 
"  they  stand  upon  their  strength ;  "  they  resist  every  power,  for 
their  own  is  all  their  own  ;  it  was  purchased  by 

"  Superior  science — penance — daring — 
And  leni^nh  of  watching — strength  of  mind — and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers." 


BYRON    AND    GOETHE 


39S 


Each  of  them  is  the  personification,  shghtly  modified,  of  a 
single  type,  a  single  idea — the  individual ;  free,  but  nothing 
•more  than  free ;  such  as  the  epoch  now  closing  has  made  him ; 
Faust,  but  without  the  compact  which  submits  him  to  the 
enemy ;  for  the  heroes  of  Byron  make  no  such  compact.  Cain 
kneels  not  to  Arimanes ;  and  Manfred,  about  to  die,  exclaims : 

"  The  mind,  which  is  immortal,  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  and  evil  thoughts — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill,  and  end — 
And  its  own  place  and  time,  its  innate  sense, 
When  stripped  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without, 
But  is  absorbed  in  sufferance  or  in  joy; 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert." 

They  have  no  kindred:  they  live  from  their  own  life  only; 
they  repulse  humanity,  and  regard  the  crowd  with  disdain. 
Each  of  them  says :  "  I  have  faith  in  myself  " ;  never,  "  I 
have  faith  in  ourselves."  They  all  aspire  to  power  or  to 
happiness.  The  one  and  the  other  alike  escape  them;  for 
they  bear  within  them,  untold,  unacknowledged  even  to  them- 
selves, the  presentiment  of  a  life  that  mere  liberty  can  never 
give  them.  Free  they  are ;  iron  souls  in  iron  frames,  they 
climb  the  Alps  of  the  physical  world  as  well  as  the  Alps  of 
thought;  still  is  their  visage  stamped  with  a  gloomy  and  in- 
cfifaceable  sadness ;  still  is  their  soul — whether,  as  in  Cain  and 
Manfred,  it  plunge  into  the  abyss  of  the  infinite,  "  intoxicated 
with  eternity,"  or  scour  the  vast  plain  and  boundless  ocean 
with  the  Corsair  and  Giaour — haunted  by  a  secret  and  sleep- 
less dread.  It  seems  as  if  they  were  doomed  to  drag  the 
broken  links  of  the  chain  they  have  burst  asunder,  riveted  to 
their  feet.  Not  only  in  the  petty  society  against  which  they 
rebel  does  their  soul  feel  fettered  and  restrained ;  but  even  in 
the  world  of  the  spirit.  Neither  is  it  to  the  enmity  of  society 
that  they  succumb ;  but  under  the  assaults  of  this  nameless 
anguish ;  under  the  corroding  action  of  potent  faculties  "  in- 
ferior still  to  their  desires  and  their  conceptions ;  "  under  the 
'deception  that  comes  from  within.  What  can  they  do  with 
the  liberty  so  painfully  won?  On  whom,  on  what,  expend  the 
exuberant  vitality  within  them  ?  They  are  alone ;  this  is  the 
secret  of  their  wreUhedness  and  impotence.    They  "  thirst  for 


396  MAZZINI 

good  " — Cain  has  said  it  for  them  all — but  cannot  achieve  it ; 
for  they  have  no  mission,  no  belief,  no  comprehension  even  of 
the  world  around  them.  They  have  never  realized  the  concep- 
tion of  humanity  in  the  multitudes  that  have  preceded,  sur- 
round, and  will  follow  after  them ;  never  thought  on  their  own 
place  between  the  past  and  future ;  on  the  continuity  of  labor 
that  unites  all  the  generations  into  one  whole;  on  the  com- 
mon end  and  aim,  only  to  be  realized  by  the  common  effort ; 
on  the  spiritual  post-sepulchral  life  even  on  earth  of  the  indi- 
vidual, through  the  thoughts  he  transmits  to  his  fellows ;  and, 
it  may  be — when  he  lives  devoted  and  dies  in  faith — through 
the  guardian  agency  he  is  allowed  to  exercise  over  the  loved 
ones  left  on  earth. 

Gifted  with  a  liberty  they  know  not  how  to  use ;  with  a  power 
and  energy  they  know  not  how  to  apply;  with  a  life  whose 
purpose  and  aim  they  comprehend  not;  they  drag  through 
their  useless  and  convulsed  existence.  Byron  destroys  them 
one  after  the  other,  as  if  he  were  the  executioner  of  a  sentence 
decreed  in  heaven.  They  fall  unwept,  like  a  withered  leaf  into 
the  stream  of  time. 

"  Nor  earth  nor  sky  shall  yield  a  single  tear, 
Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 
Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee,  for  all." 

They  die,  as  they  have  lived,  alone ;  and  a  popular  malediction 
hovers  round  their  solitary  tombs. 

This,  for  those  who  can  read  with  the  soul's  eyes,  is  what 
Byron  sings;  or  rather  what  humanity  sings  through  him. 
The  emptiness  of  the  life  and  death  of  solitary  individuality  has 
never  been  so  powerfully  and  efficaciously  summed  up  as  in 
the  pages  of  Byron.  The  crowd  do  not  comprehend  him: 
they  listen ;  fascinated  for  an  instant ;  then  repent,  and  avenge 
their  momentary  transport  by  calumniating  and  insulting  the 
poet.  His  intuition  of  the  death  of  a  form  of  society  they  call 
wounded  self-love ;  his  sorrow  for  all  is  misinterpreted  as  cow- 
ardly egotism.  They  credit  not  the  traces  of  profound  suffer- 
ing revealed  by  his  lineaments ;  they  credit  not  the  presenti- 
ment of  a  new  life  which  from  time  to  time  escapes  his 
trembling  lips ;  they  believe  not  in  the  despairing  embrace  in 
which  he  grasps  the  material  universe — stars,  lakes,  alps,  and 


BYRON   AND    GOETHE  397 

sea — and  identifies  himself  witli  it,  and  through  it  with  God, 
of  whom — to  him  at  least — it  is  a  symbol.  They  do,  however, 
take  careful  count  of  some  unhappy  moments,  in  which,  wea- 
ried out  by  the  emptiness  of  life,  he  has  raised — with  remorse 
I  am  sure — the  cup  of  ignoble  pleasures  to  his  hps,  believing 
he  might  find  forgetfulness  there.  How  many  times  have  not 
his  accusers  drained  this  cup,  without  redeeming  the  sin  by  a 
single  virtue  ;  without — I  will  not  say  bearing — but  without 
having  even  the  capacity  of  appreciating  the  burden  which 
weighed  on  Byron !  And  did  he  not  himself  dash  into  frag- 
ments the  ignoble  cup,  so  soon  as  he  beheld  something  worthy 
the  devotion  of  his  life? 

Goethe — individuality  in  its  objective  life — having,  like  By- 
ron, a  sense  of  the  falsehood  and  evil  of  the  world  round  him 
— followed  exactly  the  opposite  path.  After  having — he,  too, 
in  his  youth — uttered  a  cry  of  anguish  in  his  Werther;  after 
having  laid  bare  the  problem  of  the  epoch  in  all  its  terrific 
nudity,  in  Faust ;  he  thought  he  had  done  enough,  and  refused 
to  occupy  himself  with  its  solution.  It  is  possible  that  the  im- 
pulse of  rebellion  against  social  wrong  and  evil  which  burst 
forth  for  an  instant  in  Werther  may  long  have  held  his  soul  in 
secret  travail ;  but  that  he  despaired  of  the  task  of  reforming 
it  as  beyond  his  powers.  He  himself  remarked  in  his  later 
years,  when  commenting  on  the  exclamation  made  by  a 
Frenchman  on  first  seeing  him :  "  That  is  the  face  of  a  man 
who  has  suffered  much ;  "  that  he  should  rather  have  said : 
"  That  is  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  struggled  energetically ;  " 
but  of  this  there  remains  no  trace  in  his  works.  Whilst  Byron 
writhed  and  suffered  under  the  sense  of  the  wrong  and  evil 
around  him,  he  attained  the  calm — I  cannot  say  of  victory — 
but  of  indifference.  In  Byron  the  man  always  ruled,  and  even 
at  times  overcame  the  artist:  the  man  was  completely  lost  in 
the  artist  in  Goethe.  In  him  there  was  no  subjective  life ;  no 
unity  springing  either  from  heart  or  head.  Goethe  is  an  in- 
telligence that  receives,  elaborates,  and  reproduces  the  poetry 
affluent  to  him  from  all  external  objects :  from  all  points  of  the 
circumference;  to  him  as  centre.  He  dwells  aloft  alone;  a 
mighty  watcher  in  the  midst  of  creation.  His  curious  scrutiny 
investigates,  with  equal  penetration  and  equal  interest,  the 
'depths  of  the  ocean  and  the  calyx  of  the  floweret.     Whether 


398  MAZZINI 

he  studies  the  rose  exhaling  its  Eastern  perfume  to  the  sky,  or 
the  ocean  casting  its  countless  wrecks  upon  the  shore,  the  brow 
of  the  poet  remains  equally  calm :  to  him  they  are  but  two 
forms  of  the  beautiful ;  two  subjects  for  art. 

Goethe  has  been  called  a  pantheist.  I  know  not  in  what 
sense  critics  apply  this  vague  and  often  ill-understood  word 
to  him.  There  is  a  materialistic  pantheism  and  a  spiritual  pan- 
theism ;  the  pantheism  of  Spinoza  and  that  of  Giordano  Bruno ; 
of  St.  Paul ;  and  of  many  others — all  different.  But  there  is  no 
poetic  pantheism  possible,  save  on  the  condition  of  embracing 
the  whole  world  of  phenomena  in  one  unique  conception :  of 
feeling  and  comprehending  the  life  of  the  universe  in  its  divine 
unity.  There  is  nothing  of  this  in  Goethe.  There  is  panthe- 
ism in  some  parts  of  Wordsworth ;  in  the  third  canto  of "  Childe 
Harold,"  and  in  much  of  Shelley;  but  there  is  none  in  the 
most  admirable  compositions  of  Goethe ;  wherein  life,  though 
admirably  comprehended  and  reproduced  in  each  of  its  suc- 
cessive manifestations,  is  never  understood  as  a  whole.  Goethe 
is  the  poet  of  details,  not  of  unity ;  of  analysis,  not  of  synthesis. 
None  so  able  to  investigate  details ;  to  set  off  and  embellish 
minute  and  apparently  trifling  points ;  none  throw  so  beautiful 
a  light  on  separate  parts ;  but  the  connecting  link  escapes  him. 
His  works  resemble  a  magnificent  encyclopaedia,  unclassified. 
He  has  felt  everything;  but  he  has  never  felt  the  whole. 
Happy  in  detecting  a  ray  of  the  beautiful  upon  the  humblest 
blade  of  grass  gemmed  with  dew ;  happy  in  seizing  the  poetic 
elements  of  an  incident  the  most  prosaic  in  appearance — he 
was  incapable  of  tracing  all  to  a  common  source,  and  recom- 
posing  the  grand  ascending  scale  in  which,  to  quote  a  beauti- 
ful expression  of  Herder's,  "  every  creature  is  a  numerator  of 
the  grand  denominator,  Nature."  How,  indeed,  should  he 
comprehend  these  things,  he  who  had  no  place  in  his  works 
or  in  his  poet's  heart  for  humanity,  by  the  light  of  which  con- 
ception only  can  the  true  worth  of  sublunary  things  be  deter- 
mined? "Religion  and  politics,"^  said  he,  "are  a  troubled 
element  for  art.  I  have  always  kept  myself  aloof  from  them 
as  much  as  possible."  Questions  of  life  and  death  for  the 
millions  were  agitated  around  him ;  Germany  re-echoed  to  the 
war-songs  of  Korner ;  Fichte,  at  the  close  of  one  of  his  lectures, 

•  "  Goethe  and  hii  Contcmporsricf."  ' 


BYRON   AND   GOETHE  399 

seized  his  musket,  and  joined  the  volunteers  who  were  hasten- 
ing (alas !  what  have  not  the  Kings  made  of  that  magnificent 
outburst  of  nationality !)  to  fight  the  battles  of  their  fatherland. 
The  ancient  soil  of  Germany  thrilled  beneath  their  tread ;  he, 
an  artist,  looked  on  unmoved ;  his  heart  knew  no  responsive 
throb  to  the  emotion  that  shook  his  country ;  his  genius,  ut- 
terly passive,  drew  apart  from  the  current  that  swept  away  en- 
tire races.  He  witnessed  the  French  Revolution  in  all  its  ter- 
rible grandeur,  and  saw  the  old  world  crumble  beneath  its 
strokes ;  and  while  all  the  best  and  purest  spirits  of  Germany, 
who  had  mistaken  the  death-agony  of  the  old  world  for  the 
birth-throes  of  a  new,  were  wringing  their  hands  at  the  spec- 
tacle of  dissolution,  he  saw  in  it  only  the  subject  of  a  farce. 
He  beheld  the  glory  and  the  fall  of  Napoleon ;  he  witnessed 
the  reaction  of  down-trodden  nationalities — sublime  prologue 
of  the  grand  epopee  of  the  peoples  destined  sooner  or  later  to 
be  unfolded — and  remained  a  cold  spectator.  He  had  neither 
learned  to  esteem  men,  to  better  them,  nor  even  to  suffer  with 
them.  If  we  except  the  beautiful  type  of  Berlichingen,  a  poetic 
inspiration  of  his  youth,  man,  as  the  creature  of  thought  and 
action ;  the  artificer  of  the  future,  so  nobly  sketched  by  Schiller 
in  his  dramas,  has  no  representative  in  his  works.  He  has 
carried  something  of  this  nonchalance  even  into  the  manner 
in  which  his  heroes  conceive  love.  Goethe's  altar  is  spread 
with  the  choicest  flowers,  the  most  exquisite  perfumes,  the  first- 
fruits  of  nature ;  but  the  priest  is  wanting.  In  his  work  of 
second  creation — for  it  cannot  be  denied  that  such  it  was — he 
has  gone  through  the  vast  circle  of  living  and  visible  things; 
but  stopped  short  before  the  seventh  day.  God  withdrew  from 
him  before  that  time ;  and  the  creatures  the  poet  has  evoked 
wander  within  the  circle,  dumb  and  prayerless ;  awaiting  until 
the  man  shall  come  to  give  them  a  name,  and  appoint  them  to 
a  destination. 

No,  Goethe  is  not  the  poet  of  pantheism ;  he  is  a  polytheist 
in  his  method  as  an  artist ;  the  pagan  poet  of  modern  times. 
His  world  is,  above  all  things,  the  world  of  forms :  a  multi- 
plied Olympus.  The  Mosaic  heaven  and  the  Christian  are 
veiled  to  him.  Like  the  pagans,  he  parcels  out  Nature  into 
fragments,  and  makes  of  each  a  divinity ;  like  them,  he  wor- 
ships the  sensuous  rather  than  the  ideal ;  he  looks,  touches,  and 


400  MAZZINI 

listens  far  more  than  he  feels.  And  what  care  and  labor  are 
bestowed  upon  the  plastic  portion  of  his  art !  what  importance 
is  given — I  will  not  say  to  the  objects  themselves — but  to  the 
external  representation  of  objects!  Has  he  not  somewhere 
said  that  "  the  beautiful  is  the  result  of  happy  position  "  ?  * 

Under  this  definition  is  concealed  an  entire  system  of  poetic 
materialism,  substituted  for  the  worship  of  the  ideal ;  involving 
a  whole  series  of  consequences,  the  logical  result  of  which  was 
to  lead  Goethe  to  indifference,  that  moral  suicide  of  some  of 
the  noblest  energies  of  genius.  The  absolute  concentration 
of  every  faculty  of  observation  on  each  of  the  objects  to  be 
represented,  without  relation  to  the  ensemble;  the  entire  avoid- 
ance of  every  influence  likely  to  modify  the  view  taken  of  that 
object,  became  in  his  hands  one  of  the  most  effective  means 
of  art.  The  poet,  in  his  eyes,  was  neither  the  rushing  stream, 
a  hundred  times  broken  on  its  course,  that  it  may  carry  fer- 
tility to  the  surrounding  country ;  nor  the  brilliant  flame,  con- 
suming itself  in  the  light  it  sheds  around  while  ascending  to 
heaven ;  but  rather  the  placid  lake,  reflecting  alike  the  tranquil 
landscape  and  the  thunder-cloud ;  its  own  surface  the  while 
unruffled  even  by  the  lightest  breeze.  A  serene  and  passive 
calm,  with  the  absolute  clearness  and  distinctness  of  successive 
impressions,  in  each  of  which  he  was  for  the  time  wholly  ab- 
sorbed, are  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  Goethe.  "  I  allow 
the  objects  I  desire  to  comprehend,  to  act  tranquilly  upon  me," 
said  he ;  "  I  then  observe  the  impression  I  have  received  from 
them,  and  I  endeavor  to  render  it  faithfully."  Goethe  has  here 
portrayed  his  every  feature  to  perfection.  He  was  in  life  such 
as  Madame  Von  Arnim  proposed  to  represent  him  after  death; 
a  venerable  old  man,  with  a  serene,  almost  radiant  counten- 
ance ;  clothed  in  an  antique  robe,  holding  a  lyre  resting  on  his 
knees,  and  listening  to  the  harmonies  drawn  from  it  either  by 
the  hand  of  a  genius,  or  the  breath  of  the  winds.  The  last 
chords  wafted  his  soul  to  the  East ;  to  the  land  of  inactive  con- 
templation. It  was  time :  Europe  had  become  too  agitated  for 
him. 

Such  were  Byron  and  Goethe  in  their  general  characteris- 
tics ;  both  great  poets ;  very  different,  and  yet,  complete  as  is 
the  contrast  between  them,  and  widely  apart  as  arc  the  paths 

*  In  the  "  Kunst  und  Altcrthum."  I  think. 


BYRON  AND   GOETHE  401 

they  pursue,  arriving  at  the  same  point.  Life  and  death,  char- 
acter and  poetry,  everything  is  unhke  in  the  two,  and  yet  the 
one  is  the  complement  of  the  other.  Both  are  the  children  of 
fatahty — for  it  is  especially  at  the  close  of  epochs  that  the  prov- 
idential law  which  directs  the  generations  assumes  towards 
individuals  the  semblance  of  fatality — and  compelled  by  it  un- 
consciously to  work  out  a  great  mission.  Goethe  contem- 
plates the  world  in  parts,  and  delivers  the  impressions  they 
make  upon  him,  one  by  one,  as  occasion  presents  them.  By- 
ron looks  upon  the  world  from  a  single  comprehensive  point 
of  view ;  from  the  height  of  which  he  modifies  in  his  own  soul 
the  impressions  produced  by  external  objects,  as  they  pass 
before  him.  Goethe  successively  absorbs  his  own  individual- 
ity in  each  of  the  objects  he  reproduces.  Byron  stamps  every 
object  he  portrays  with  his  own  individuality.  To  Goethe, 
nature  is  the  symphony ;  to  Byron  it  is  the  prelude.  She  fur- 
nishes to  the  one  the  entire  subject;  to  the  other  the  occasion 
only  of  his  verse.  The  one  executes  her  harmonies ;  the  other 
composes  on  the  theme  she  has  suggested.  Goethe  better  ex- 
presses lives ;  Byron  life.  The  one  is  more  vast ;  the  other 
more  deep.  The  first  searches  every\vhere  for  the  beautiful,  and 
V>ves,  above  all  things,  harmony  and  repose ;  the  other  seeks 
the  sublime,  and  adores  action  and  force.  Characters,  such  as 
Coriolanus  or  Luther,  disturbed  Goethe.  I  know  not  if,  in  his 
numerous  pieces  of  criticism,  he  has  ever  spoken  of  Dante  ;  but 
assuredly  he  must  have  shared  the  antipathy  felt  for  him  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott ;  and  although  he  would  undoubtedly  have 
sufficiently  respected  his  genius  to  admit  him  into  his  Pan- 
theon, yet  he  would  certainly  have  drawn  a  veil  between  his 
mental  eye  and  the  grand  but  sombre  figure  of  the  exiled  seer, 
who  dreamed  of  the  future  empire  of  the  world  for  his  country, 
and  of  the  world's  harmonious  development  under  her  guid- 
ance. Byron  loved  and  drew  inspiration  from  Dante.  He 
also  loved  Washington  and  Franklin,  and  followed,  with  all 
the  sympathies  of  a  soul  athirst  for  action,  the  meteor-like 
career  of  the  greatest  genius  of  action  our  age  has  produced. 
Napoleon  ;  feeling  indignant — perhaps  mistakenly — that  he  did 
not  die  in  the  struggle. 

When  travelling  in  that  second  fatherland  of  all  poetic  souls 
— Italy — the  poets  still  pursued  divergent  routes ;  the  one  ex- 

*^  *=  K— Vol.  60 


402  MAZZINI 

perienced  sensations;  the  other  emotions;  the  one  occupied 
himself  especially  with  nature;  the  other  with  the  greatness 
dead,  the  living  wrongs,  the  human  memories."* 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  all  the  contrasts,  which  I  have 
only  hinted  at,  but  which  might  be  far  more  elaborately  dis- 
played by  extracts  from  their  works;  they  arrived — Goethe, 
the  poet  of  individuality  in  its  objective  life — at  the  egotism  of 
indifference ;  Byron — the  poet  of  individuality  in  its  subjective 
life — at  the  egotism  (I  say  it  with  regret,  but  it,  too,  is  egotism) 
of  despair:  a  double  sentence  upon  the  epoch  which  it  was 
their  mission  to  represent  and  to  close ! 

Both  of  them — I  am  not  speaking  of  their  purely  literary 
merits,  incontestable  and  universally  acknowledged — the  one 
by  the  spirit  of  resistance  that  breathes  through  all  his  crea- 
tions; the  other  by  the  spirit  of  sceptical  irony  that  pervades 
his  works,  and  by  the  independent  sovereignty  attributed  to 
art  over  all  social  relations — greatly  aided  the  cause  of  intel- 
lectual emancipation,  and  awakened  in  men's  minds  the  senti- 
ment of  liberty.  Both  of  them — the  one,  directly,  by  the  im- 
placable war  he  waged  against  the  vices  and  absurdities  of  the 
privileged  classes,  and  indirectly,  by  investing  his  heroes  with 
all  the  most  brilliant  qualities  of  the  despot,  and  then  dashing 
them  to  pieces  as  if  in  anger ; — the  other,  by  the  poetic  rehabili- 
tation of  forms  the  most  modest,  and  objects  the  most  insig- 

•  The  contrast  between  the  two  poets  tudes;   the  horizon  lengthens  in  the  dis- 

is    nowhere    more    strikingly    displayed  tance,  or  suddenly  contracti;    huts  and 

than  by  the  manner  in  which  they  were  stables,  columns  and  triumphal  arches, 

aflfected  by  the  sight  of  Rome.    In  Goe-  all  lie  pell-mell,  and  o^ten  so  close  that 

the's   "  Elegies  "   and    in   his   "  Travels  we  might  find  room  for  all  on  the  same 

in    Italy  "   we   find   the   impressions   of  sheet  of  paper." 

the  artist  only.  He  did  not  understand  At  Rome  Byron  forgot  passions,  sor- 
Rome.  The  eternal  synthesis  that,  from  rows,  his  own  individuality,  all,  in  the 
the  heights  of  the  Capitol  and  St.  Peter,  presence  of  a  great  idea;  witness  this 
is  gradually  unfolded  in  ever-widening  utterance  of  a  soul  born  for  devoted- 
circles,    embracing    first    a    nation    and  ness: — 

then   Europe,  as  it  will   ultimately  em-  "  O  Rome!  my  country!  city  of  the  soul! 

brace  humanity,  remained  unrevealed  to  The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn 

him;     he   saw  only  the   inner   circle  of  to  thee, 

f>aganism;    the  least  prolific,  as  well  as  Lone   mother   of  dead   cmpiresl     and 

east  indigenous.     One  might  fancy  that  control 

he  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  for  an  instant,  In    their    shut    breasts    their    petty 

when  he  wrote:    "  History  is  read  here  misery." 

far  otherwise  than  in  any  other  spot  in  _  When  at  last   he  came  to  a  recollec- 

the     universe;     elsewhere     we     read     it  tion  of  himself  and  his  position,  it  was 

from  without  to  within;    here  one  seems  with   a  hope  for  the  world    (stanza  98) 

to  read  it  from  within  to  without;  "  but  and  a  pardon  for  his  enemies.    From  the 

if   so,   he   soon   lost    sight    of    it    again,  fourth   canto   of  "  Childe   Harold,"   the 

and   became   absorbed    in    external    nat-  daughter    of    Byron    might    learn    more 

wre.     "  Whether  we  halt  or  advance,  we  of    the    true    spirit    of    her    father    than 

discover  a  l.indscape  ever   renewing   if-  from  all  the  reports  she  may  have  heard, 

self  in  a   thousand  fashions.     We  have  and    all    the    many    volumes    that    have 

palaces   and  ruins;    gardens  and   soli-  been  written  upon  him. 


BYRON   AND   GOETHE  403 

nificant,  as  well  as  by  the  importance  attributed  to  details — 
combated  aristocratic  prejudices,  and  developed  in  men's 
minds  the  sentiment  of  equality.  And  having  by  their  artistic 
excellence  exhausted  both  forms  of  the  poetry  of  individuality, 
they  have  completed  the  cycle  of  its  poets ;  thereby  reducing 
all  followers  in  the  same  sphere  to  the  subaltern  position  of 
imitators,  and  creating  the  necessity  of  a  new  order  of  poetry ; 
teaching  us  to  recognize  a  want  where  before  we  felt  only  a 
desire.  Together  they  have  laid  an  era  in  the  tomb ;  covering 
it  with  a  pall  that  none  may  lift ;  and,  as  if  to  proclaim  its  death 
to  the  young  generation,  the  poetry  of  Goethe  has  written  its 
history,  while  that  of  Byron  has  graven  its  epitaph. 

And  now  farewell  to  Goethe ;  farewell  to  Byron !  farewell  to 
the  sorrows  that  crush  but  sanctify  not — to  the  poetic  flame 
that  illumines  but  warms  not — to  the  ironical  philosophy  that 
dissects  without  reconstructing — to  all  poetry  which,  in  an  age 
where  there  is  so  much  to  do,  teaches  us  inactive  contempla- 
tion ;  or  which,  in  a  world  where  there  is  so  much  need  of  de- 
votedness,  would  instil  despair.  Farewell  to  all  types  of  power 
without  an  aim ;  to  all  personifications  of  the  solitary  individu- 
ality which  seeks  an  aim  to  find  it  not,  and  knows  not  how  to 
apply  the  life  stirring  within  it ;  to  all  egotistic  joys  and  griefs :  J 

"  Bastards  of  the  soul; 
O'erweening  slips  of  idleness:  weeds — no  more— 
Self-springing  here  and  there  from  the  rank  soil; 
O'erflowings  of  the  lust  of  that  same  mind 
Whose  proper  issue  and  determinate  end, 
When  wedded  to  the  love  of  things  divine, 
Is  peace,  complacency,  and  happiness." 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  the  past !  The  davm  of  the  future 
is  announced  to  such  as  can  read  its  signs,  and  we  owe  our- 
selves wholly  to  it. 

The  duality  of  the  Middle  Ages,  after  having  struggled  for 
centuries  under  the  banners  of  emperor  and  pope ;  after  having 
left  its  trace  and  borne  its  fruit  in  every  branch  of  intellectual 
development ;  has  reascended  to  heaven — its  mission  accom- 
plished— in  the  twin  flames  of  poesy  called  Goethe  and  Byron. 
Two  hitherto  distinct  formulae  of  life  became  incarnate  in  these 
two  men.     Byron  is  isolated  man,  representing  only  the  inter- 


404  MAZZINI 

nal  aspect  of  life ;  Goethe  isolated  man,  representing  only  the 
external. 

Higher  than  these  two  incomplete  existences ;  at  the  point 
of  intersection  between  the  two  aspirations  towards  a  heaven 
they  were  unable  to  reach,  will  be  revealed  the  poetry  of  the 
■  future ;  ot  humanity ;  potent  in  new  harmony,  unity,  and  hfe. 

But  because,  in  our  own  day,  we  are  beginning,  though 
vaguely,  to  foresee  this  new  social  poetry,  which  will  soothe 
the  suffering  soul  by  teaching  it  to  rise  towards  God  through 
humanity;  because  we  now  stand  on  the  threshold  of  a  new 
epoch,  which,  but  for  them,  we  should  not  have  reached ;  shall 
we  decry  those  who  were  unable  to  do  more  for  us  than  cast 
their  giant  forms  into  the  gulf  that  held  us  all  doubting  and 
dismayed  on  the  other  side?  From  the  earliest  times  has 
genius  been  made  the  scapegoat  of  the  generations.  Society 
has  never  lacked  men  who  have  contented  themselves  with  re- 
proaching the  Chattertons  of  their  day  with  not  being  patterns 
of  self-devotion,  instead  of  physical  or  moral  suicides;  with- 
out ever  asking  themselves  whether  they  had,  during  their 
lifetime,  endeavored  to  place  aught  within  the  reach  of  such 
but  doubt  and  destitution.  I  feel  the  necessity  of  protesting 
earnestly  against  the  reaction  set  on  foot  by  certain  thinkers 
against  the  mighty-souled,  which  serves  as  a  cloak  for  the 
cavilling  spirit  of  mediocrity.  There  is  something  hard,  re- 
pulsive, and  ungrateful  in  the  destructive  instinct  which  so 
often  forgets  what  has  been  done  by  the  great  men  who  pre- 
ceded us,  to  demand  of  them  merely  an  account  of  what  more 
might  have  been  done.  Is  the  pillow  of  scepticism  so  soft  to 
genius  as  to  justify  the  conclusion  that  it  is  from  egotism  only 
that  at  times  it  rests  its  fevered  brow  thereon  ?  Are  we  so 
free  from  the  evil  reflected  in  their  verse  as  to  have  a  right  to 
condemn  their  memory?  That  evil  was  not  introduced  into 
the  world  by  them.  They  saw  it,  felt  it,  respired  it;  it  was 
around,  about,  on  every  side  of  them,  and  they  were  its  greatest 
victims.  How  could  they  avoid  reproducing  it  in  their  works? 
It  is  not  by  deposing  Goethe  or  Byron  that  we  shall  destroy 
either  sceptical  or  anarchical  indifTerence  amongst  us.  It  is 
by  becoming  believers  and  organizers  ourselves.  If  we  are 
such,  we  need  fear  nothing.  As  is  the  public,  so  will  be  the 
poet.     If  we  revere  enthusiasm,  the  fatherland,  and  humanity; 


BYRON   AND    GOETHE  405 

if  our  hearts  are  pure,  and  our  souls  steadfast  and  patient,  the 
genius  inspired  to  interpret  our  aspirations,  and  bear  to  heaven 
our  ideas  and  our  sufferings,  will  not  be  wanting.  Let  these 
statues  stand.  The  noble  monuments  of  feudal  times  create 
no  desire  to  return  to  the  days  of  serfdom. 

But  I  shall  be  told,  there  are  imitators.  I  know  it  too  well; 
but  what  lasting  influence  can  be  exerted  on  social  life  by 
those  who  have  no  real  life  of  their  own  ?  They  will  but  flutter 
in  the  void,  so  long  as  void  there  be.  On  the  day  when  the 
Hving  shall  arise  to  take  the  place  of  the  dead,  they  will  vanish 
like  ghosts  at  cock-crow.  Shall  we  never  be  sufficiently  firm 
in  our  own  faith  to  dare  to  show  fitting  reverence  for  the  grand 
typical  figures  of  an  anterior  age?  It  would  be  idle  to  speak 
of  social  art  at  all,  or  of  the  comprehension  of  humanity,  if  we 
could  not  raise  altars  to  the  new  gods,  without  overthrowing 
the  old.  Those  only  should  dare  to  utter  the  sacred  name  of 
progress,  whose  souls  possess  intelligence  enough  to  compre- 
hend the  past,  and  whose  hearts  possess  sufficient  poetic  re- 
ligion to  reverence  its  greatness.  The  temple  of  the  true  be- 
liever is  not  the  chapel  of  a  sect ;  it  is  a  vast  Pantheon,  in  which 
the  glorious  images  of  Goethe  and  Byron  will  hold  their  hon- 
ored place,  long  after  Goetheism  and  Byronism  shall  have 
ceased  to  be. 

When,  purified  alike  from  imitation  and  distrust,  men  learn 
to  pay  righteous  reverence  to  the  mighty  fallen,  I  know  not 
whether  Goethe  will  obtain  more  of  their  admiration  as  an 
artist,  but  I  am  certain  that  Byron  will  inspire  them  with  more 
love,  both  as  man  and  poet — a  love  increased  even  by  the  fact 
of  the  great  injustice  hitherto  shown  to  him.  While  Goethe 
held  himself  aloof  from  us,  and  from  the  height  of  his  Olym- 
pian calm  seemed  to  smile  with  disdain  at  our  desires,  our 
struggles,  and  our  sufferings — Byron  wandered  through  the 
world,  sad,  gloomy,  and  unquiet ;  wounded,  and  bearing  the 
arrow  in  the  wound.  Solitary  and  unfortunate  in  his  infancy ; 
unfortunate  in  his  first  love,  and  still  more  terribly  so  in  his 
ill-advised  marriage ;  attacked  and  calumniated  both  in  his 
acts  and  intentions,  without  inquiry  or  defence ;  harassed  by 
pecuniary  difficulties ;  forced  to  quit  his  country,  home,  and 
child ;  friendless — we  have  seen  it  too  clearly  since  his  death — 
pursued  even  on  the  Continent  by  a  thousand  absurd  and  in- 


4o6  MAZZINI 

famous  falsehoods,  and  by  the  cold  malignity  of  a  world  that 
twisted  even  his  sorrows  into  a  crime ;  he  yet,  in  the  midst  of 
inevitable  reaction,  preserved  his  love  for  his  sister  and  his  Ada; 
his  compassion  for  misfortune ;  his  fidehty  to  the  affections  of 
his  childhood  and  youth,  from  Lord  Clare  to  his  old  servant 
Murray,  and  his  nurse  Mary  Gray.  He  was  generous  with  his 
money  to  all  whom  he  could  help  or  serve,  from  his  literary 
friends  down  to  the  wretched  libeller  Ashe.  Though  impelled 
by  the  temper  of  his  genius,  by  the  period  in  which  he  lived, 
and  by  that  fatality  of  his  mission  to  which  I  have  alluded, 
towards  a  poetic  individualism,  the  inevitable  incompleteness 
of  which  I  have  endeavored  to  explain,  he  by  no  means  set 
it  up  as  a  standard.  That  he  presaged  the  future  with  the  pre- 
vision of  genius  is  proved  by  his  definition  of  poetry  in  his 
journal — a  definition  hitherto  misunderstood,  but  yet  the  best 
I  know :  "  Poetry  is  the  feeling  of  a  former  world  and  of  a 
future."  Poet  as  he  was,  he  preferred  activity  for  good,  to  all 
that  his  art  could  do.  Surrounded  by  slaves  and  their  op- 
pressors; a  traveller  in  countries  where  even  remembrance 
seemed  extinct;  never  did  he  desert  the  cause  of  the  peoples; 
never  was  he  false  to  human  sympathies.  A  witness  of  the 
progress  of  the  Restoration,  and  the  triumph  of  the  principles 
of  the  Holy  Alliance,  he  never  swerved  from  his  courageous 
opposition ;  he  preserved  and  publicly  proclaimed  his  faith  in 
the  rights  of  the  peoples  and  in  the  final  °  triumph  of  liberty. 
The  following  passage  from  his  journal  is  the  very  abstract  of 
the  law  governing  the  efforts  of  the  true  party  of  progress  at 
the  present  day :  "  Onwards !  it  is  now  the  time  to  act ;  and 
what  signifies  self,  if  a  single  spark  of  that  which  would  be 
worthy  of  the  past  '^  can  be  bequeathed  unquenchably  to  the 
future?  It  is  not  one  man,  nor  a  million,  but  the  spirit  of  lib- 
erty which  must  be  spread.  The  waves  which  dash  on  the 
shore  are,  one  by  one,  broken ;  but  yet  the  ocean  conquers  never- 
theless.    It  overwhelms  the  armada ;  it  wears  the  rock ;  and  if 

•"  Yet,  Freedom  I    yet,  thy  banner  torn,  Chopped  by  the  axe,  looks  rough 

but   flying,  and  little  worth. 

Streams,    like    the    thunder-storm,  But  the  sap  lasts— and  still  the  seed 

against  the  wind:  we   find 

Thy  trumpet   voice,   though   broken  Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of 

now  and  dying,  the    North. 

The     loudest     still     the     tempest  So  shall   a  better  spring  less  bitter 

leaves  behind.  fruit   bring  forth." 
The   tree   hath    lost    its  blossoms,            '  Written  in  Italy. 

and  the  rind, 


BYRON    AND   GOETHE  40f 

the  Neptunians  are  to  be  believed,  it  has  not  only  destroyed  but 
made  a  world."  At  Naples,  in  the  Romagna,  wherever  he  saw 
a  spark  of  noble  life  stirring,  he  was  ready  for  any  exertion;  or 
danger,  to  blow  it  into  a  flame.  He  stigmatized  baseness,  hy- 
pocrisy, and  injustice,  whencesoever  they  sprang. 

Thus  lived  Byron,  ceaselessly  tempest-tossed  between  the 
ills  of  the  present  and  his  yearnings  after  the  future ;  often  un- 
equal ;  sometimes  sceptical ;  but  always  suffering — often  most 
so  when  he  seemed  to  laugh ;  ®  and  always  loving,  even  when 
he  seemed  to  curse. 

Never  did  "  the  eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind  "  make 
a  brighter  apparition  amongst  us.  He  seems  at  times  a  trans- 
formation of  that  immortal  Prometheus,  of  whom  he  has  written 
so  nobly ;  whose  cry  of  agony,  yet  of  futurity,  sounded  above 
the  cradle  of  the  European  world  ;  and  whose  grand  and  myste- 
rious form,  transfigured  by  time,  reappears  from  age  to  age, 
between  the  entombment  of  one  epoch  and  the  accession  of  an- 
other ;  to  wail  forth  the  lament  of  genius,  tortured  by  the  pre- 
sentment of  things  it  will  not  see  realized  in  its  time.  Byron, 
too,  had  the  "  firm  will  "  and  the  "  deep  sense ;"  he,  too,  made 
of  his  "  death  a  victory."  When  he  heard  the  cry  of  nationality 
and  liberty  burst  forth  in  the  land  he  had  loved  and  sung  in 
early  youth,  he  broke  his  harp  and  set  forth.  While  the  Chris- 
tian Powers  were  protocolizing  or  worse — while  the  Christian 
nations  were  doling  forth  the  alms  of  a  few^  piles  of  ball  in  aid 
of  the  Cross  struggling  with  the  Crescent ;  he,  the  poet,  and 
pretended  sceptic,  hastened  to  throw  his  fortune,  his  genius, 
and  his  life  at  the  feet  of  the  first  people  that  had  arisen  in  the 
name  of  the  nationality  and  liberty  he  loved. 

I  know  no  more  beautiful  symbol  of  the  future  destiny  and 
mission  of  art  than  the  death  of  Byron  in  Greece.  The  holy 
alliance  of  poetry  with  the  cause  of  the  peoples ;  the  union — still 
so  rare — of  thought  and  action — which  alone  completes  the 
human  Word,  and  is  destined  to  emancipate  the  world ;  the 
grand  solidarity  of  all  nations  in  the  conquest  of  the  rights  or- 
dained by  God  for  all  his  children,  and  in  the  accomplishment 
of  that  mission  for  which  alone  such  rights  exist — all  that  is 
now  the  religion  and  the  hope  of  the  party  of  progress  through- 

• "  And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 
'Tis  that  I  may  not  weep." 


4o8  MAZZINI 

out  Europe,  is  gloriously  typified  in  this  image,  which  we,  bar- 
barians that  we  are,  have  already  forgotten. 

The  day  will  come  when  democracy  will  remember  all  that 
it  owes  to  Byron.  England,  too,  will,  I  hope,  one  day  remem- 
ber the  mission — so  entirely  English,  yet  hitherto  overlooked  by 
her — which  Byron  fulfilled  on  the  Continent;  the  European 
role  given  by  him  to  English  literature,  and  the  appreciation  and 
sympathy  for  England  which  he  awakened  amongst  us. 

Before  he  came,  all  that  was  known  of  English  literature  was 
the  French  translation  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  anathema  hurled 
by  Voltaire  against  the  "  intoxicated  barbarian."  It  is  since 
Byron  that  we  Continentalists  have  learned  to  study  Shake- 
speare and  other  English  writers.  From  him  dates  the  sym- 
pathy of  all  the  true-hearted  amongst  us  for  this  land  of  liberty, 
whose  true  vocation  he  so  worthily  represented  among  the  op- 
pressed. He  led  the  genius  of  Britain  on  a  pilgrimage  through- 
out all  Europe. 

England  will  one  day  feel  how  ill  it  is — not  for  Byron  but 
for  herself — that  the  foreigner  who  lands  upon  her  shores 
should  search  in  vain  in  that  temple  which  should  be  her  national 
Pantheon,  for  the  poet  beloved  and  admired  by  all  the  nations 
of  Europe,  and  for  whose  death  Greece  and  Italy  wept  as  it  had 
been  that  of  the  noblest  of  their  own  sons. 

In  these  few  pages — unfortunately  very  hasty — my  aim  has 
been,  not  so  much  to  criticise  either  Goethe  or  Byron,  for  which 
both  time  and  space  are  wanting,  as  to  suggest,  and  if  possible 
lead,  English  criticism  upon  a  broader,  more  impartial,  and 
more  useful  path  than  the  one  generally  followed.  Certain 
travellers  of  the  eleventh  century  relate  that  they  saw  at  Tene- 
rifife  a  prodigiously  lofty  tree,  which,  from  its  immense  extent 
of  foliage,  collected  all  the  vapors  of  the  atmosphere;  to  dis- 
charge them,  when  its  branches  were  shaken,  in  a  shower  of 
pure  and  refreshing  water.  Genius  is  like  this  tree,  and  the 
mission  of  criticism  should  be  to  shake  the  branches.  At  the 
present  day  it  more  resembles  a  savage  striving  to  hew  down 
the  noble  tree  to  the  roots. 


THE  POETRY    OF    THE    CELTIC    RACES 


BY 


JOSEPH    ERNEST    RENAN 


JOSEPH   ERNEST   RENAN 
1823— 1892 

Joseph  Ernest  Renan  was  born  at  Treguier,  a  little  town  in  Brittany, 
in  1823.  His  father  was  a  Breton  seafaring  man,  and  all  his  life  Renan 
retained  a  deep  and  abiding  love  for  the  life,  legends,  and  poetry  of 
Brittany.  The  essay  on  "  The  Poetry  of  the  Celtic  Races "  shows 
Renan  at  his  best,  for  in  it  he  describes  the  poetry  of  his  own  race, 
the  legends  learned  during  his  own  childhood.  Until  the  age  of  fifteen 
Renan  attended  the  convent  school  of  his  native  village.  His  pro- 
ficiency attracted  the  attention  of  the  Abbe  Dupanloup,  and  he  was 
given  a  free  scholarship  in  the  Parisian  preparatory  school  of  St. 
Nicholas  du  Chardonnet.  Subsequently  he  entered  the  theological 
seminary  of  St.  Sulpice,  but  decided,  after  long  meditation,  that  his 
religious  views  would  not  permit  him  to  enter  the  priesthood,  and  he 
accordingly,  in  1845,  took  a  position  as  tutor.  Two  years  later  he 
wrote  an  essay  on  the  "  General  History  of  the  Semitic  Languages  " 
that  won  the  Volney  prize  at  the  Institute  of  France.  In  1851  he 
accepted  a  position  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  and  in  1856  he  be- 
came a  member  of  the  Academic  des  Inscriptions  et  Belles-Lettres. 
About  this  time  he  wrote  numerous  essays  of  great  learning  and  power 
on  topics  ranging  from  philosophy,  theology,  and  history,  to  literary 
criticism.  These  were  soon  gathered  together  and  published  in  the 
volumes  "  Etudes  d'histoire  religieuse  "  and  "  Essais  de  morale  et  de 
critique."  In  1863  appeared  his  "  La  vie  de  Jesus."  This  book  aroused 
a  storm  of  criticism  and  protest.  The  clamors  resulted  in  Renan's 
removal  from  the  chair  of  Hebrew  which  he  had  occupied  in  the 
College  de  France  since  1862.  In  "  Les  apotres,"  which  appeared  in 
1866,  Renan  applied,  with  similar  results,  the  same  critical  and  historical 
method  to  the  study  of  the  lives  of  the  apostles  that  had  previously 
created  so  much  sensation  in  his  "  Life  of  Jesus."  The  remaining 
volumes  of  Renan's  celebrated  "  Histoire  des  origines  du  christian- 
isme"  were  "St.  Paul"  (1867),  "  L'Antechnst "  (1873),  "Les  evan- 
giles"  (1877),  "  L'Eglise  chretienne  "  (1879),  and  "  I\Iarc  Aur^le " 
(1880). 

In  1870  Renan  resumed  his  professorship  at  the  College  of  France, 
and  was  soon  placed  at  the  head  of  the  institution,  a  position  he 
held  until  his  death.  In  1878  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  French 
Academy.  His  last  great  work  was  the  "  Histoire  du  peuple  d'Israel." 
He  died  at  Paris  in  1892. 

Renan  was  one  of  the  masters  of  modern  French  prose.  In  his 
expository  passages  no  writer  could  be  more  clear,  in  his  descriptive 
work  none  more  vivid.  He  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  school  of 
critical  philosophy  in  France,  and  fills  an  important  place  both  in 
French  literature  and  in  the  history  of  the  development  of  human 
thought. 


410 


THE   POETRY  OF  THE   CELTIC   RACES 

EVERYONE  who  travels  through  the  Armorican  penin- 
sula experiences  a  change  of  the  most  abrupt  descrip- 
tion as  soon  as  he  leaves  behind  the  district  most  closely 
bordering  upon  the  Continent,  in  which  the  cheerful  but  com- 
monplace type  of  face  of  Normandy  and  Maine  is  continually 
in  evidence,  and  passes  into  the  true  Brittany,  that  which  merits 
its  name  by  language  and  race.  A  cold  wind  arises  full  of  a 
vague  sadness,  and  carries  the  soul  to  other  thoughts ;  the  tree- 
tops  are  bare  and  twisted ;  the  heath  with  its  monotony  of  tint 
stretches  away  into  the  distance ;  at  every  step  the  granite  pro- 
trudes from  a  soil  too  scanty  to  cover  it;  a  sea  that  is  almost 
always  sombre  girdles  the  horizon  with  eternal  moaning.  The 
same  contrast  is  manifest  in  the  people :  to  Norman  vulgarity, 
to  a  plump  and  prosperous  population,  happy  to  live,  full  of  its 
own  interests,  egoistical  as  are  all  those  who  make  a  habit  of 
enjoyment,  succeeds  a  timid  and  reserved  race  living  altogether 
within  itself,  heavy  in  appearance  but  capable  of  profound 
feeling,  and  of  an  adorable  delicacy  in  its  religious  instincts.  A 
like  change  is  apparent,  I  am  told,  in  passing  from  England  into 
Wales,  from  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland,  English  by  language 
and  manners,  into  the  Gaelic  Highlands ;  and,  too,  though  with 
a  perceptible  difference,  when  one  buries  one's  self  in  the  dis- 
tricts of  Ireland  where  the  race  has  remained  pure  from  all  ad- 
mixture of  alien  blood.  It  seems  like  entering  on  the  subter- 
ranean strata  of  another  world,  and  one  experiences  in  some 
measure  the  impression  given  us  by  Dante,  when  he  leads  us 
from  one  circle  of  his  Inferno  to  another. 

Sufficient  attention  is  not  given  to  the  peculiarity  of  this  fact 
of  an  ancient  race  living,  until  our  days  and  almost  under  our 
eyes,  its  own  life  in  some  obscure  islands  and  peninsulas  in  the 
West,  more  and  more  affected,  it  is  true,  by  external  influences, 
but  still  faithful  to  its  own  tongue,  to  its  own  memories,  to  its 

411 


412  REN  AN 

own  customs,  and  to  its  own  genius.  Especially  is  it  forgotten 
that  this  little  people,  now  concentrated  on  the  very  confines  of 
the  world,  in  the  midst  of  rocks  and  mountains  whence  its  ene- 
mies have  been  powerless  to  force  it,  is  in  possession  of  a 
literature  which,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  exercised  an  immense  in- 
fluence, changed  the  current  of  European  civilization,  and  im- 
posed its  poetical  motives  on  nearly  the  whole  of  Christendom. 
Yet  it  is  only  necessary  to  open  the  authentic  monuments  of 
the  Gaelic  genius  to  be  convinced  that  the  race  which  created 
them  has  had  its  own  original  manner  of  feeling  and  thinking, 
that  nowhere  has  the  eternal  illusion  clad  itself  in  more  seductive 
hues,  and  that  in  the  great  chorus  of  humanity  no  race  equals 
this  for  penetrative  notes  that  go  to  the  very  heart.  Alas !  it, 
too,  is  doomed  to  disappear,  this  emerald  set  in  the  Western 
seas.  Arthur  will  return  no  more  from  his  isle  of  faery,  and 
St.  Patrick  was  right  when  he  said  to  Ossian,  "  The  heroes  that 
thou  weepest  are  dead ;  can  they  be  born  again  ?  "  It  is  high 
time  to  note,  before  they  shall  have  passed  away,  the  divine 
tones  thus  expiring  on  the  horizon  before  the  growing  tumult 
of  uniform  civilization.  Were  criticism  to  set  itself  the  task 
of  calling  back  these  distant  echoes,  and  of  giving  a  voice  to 
races  that  are  no  more,  would  not  that  suffice  to  absolve  it  from 
the  reproach,  unreasonably  and  too  frequently  brought  against 
it,  of  being  only  negative? 

Good  works  now  exist  which  facilitate  the  task  of  him  who 
undertakes  the  study  of  these  interesting  literatures.  Wales, 
above  all,  is  distinguished  by  scientific  and  literary  activity,  not 
always  accompanied,  it  is  true,  by  a  very  rigorous  critical  spirit, 
but  deserving  the  highest  praise.  There,  researches  which 
would  bring  honor  to  the  most  active  centres  of  learning  in 
Europe  are  the  work  of  enthusiastic  amateurs.  A  peasant 
called  Owen  Jones  published  in  1801-7,  under  the  name  of  the 
"  Myvyrian  Archaiology  of  Wales,"  the  precious  collection 
which  is  to  this  day  the  arsenal  of  Cymric  antiquities.  A  num- 
ber of  erudite  and  zealous  workers,  Aneurin  Owen,  Thomas 
Price  of  Crickhowcll,  William  Rees,  and  John  Jones,  following 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  Myvyrian  peasant,  set  themselves  to  finish 
his  work,  and  to  profit  from  the  treasures  which  he  had  col- 
lected. A  woman  of  distinction,  Lady  Charlotte  Guest,  charged 
herself  with  the  task  of  acquainting  Europe  with  the  collection! 


THE   POETRY    OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  413 

of  the  Mabinogion,^  the  pearl  of  Gaelic  literature,  the  com- 
pletest  expression  of  the  Cymric  genius.  This  magnificent 
work,  executed  in  twelve  years  with  the  luxury  that  the  wealthy 
English  amateur  knows  how  to  use  in  his  publications,  will 
one  day  attest  how  full  of  life  the  consciousness  of  the  Celtic 
races  remained  in  the  present  century.  Only  indeed  the  sin- 
cerest  patriotism  could  inspire  a  woman  to  undertake  and 
achieve  so  vast  a  literary  monument.  Scotland  and  Ireland 
have  in  like  measure  been  enriched  by  a  host  of  studies  of  their 
ancient  history.  Lastly,  our  own  Brittany,  though  all  too  rarely 
studied  with  the  philological  and  critical  rigor  now  exacted 
in  works  of  erudition,  has  furnished  Celtic  antiquities  with 
her  share  of  worthy  research.  Does  it  not  suffice  to  cite  M.  de 
la  Villemarque,  whose  name  will  be  henceforth  associated 
among  us  with  these  studies,  and  whose  services  are  so  incon- 
testable, that  criticism  need  have  no  fear  of  depreciating  him  in 
the  eyes  of  a  public  which  has  accepted  him  with  so  much 
warmth  and  sympathy? 


If  the  excellence  of  races  is  to  be  appreciated  by  the  purity 
of  their  blood  and  the  inviolability  of  their  national  character, 
it  must  needs  be  admitted  that  none  can  vie  in  nobility  with 
the  still  surviving  remains  of  the  Celtic  race.^  Never  has  a 
human  family  lived  more  apart  from  the  world,  and  been  purer 
from  all  alien  admixture.  Confined  by  conquest  within  for- 
gotten islands  and  peninsulas,  it  has  reared  an  impassable 
barrier  against  external  influences ;  it  has  drawn  all  from  itself; 

^  "  The  Mabinogion,  from  the  Llyfr  still  merit  this  name,  as  opposed  to  the 
Coch  O  Hergest  and  other  ancient  Teutons  and  to  the  Neo-Latin  peoples. 
Welsh  Manuscripts,  with  an  English  These  four  groups  are:  (i)  The  inhabi- 
Iranslation  and  Notes."  By  Lady  tants  of  Wales  or  Cambria,  and  the  pen- 
Charlotte  Guest.  London  and  Llando-  insula  of  Cornwall,  bearing  even  now 
very,  1837-49.  The  word  Mabinogi  (in  the  ancient  name  of  Cymry;  (2)  the 
the  plural  Mabinogion)  designates  a  Bretons  bretonnants,  or  dwellers  in 
form  of  romantic  narrative  peculiar  to  French  Brittany  speaking  Bas-Breton, 
Wales.  The  origin  and  primitive  mean-  who  represent  an  emigration  of  the 
ing  of  this  word  are  very  uncertain,  and  Cymry  from  Wales;  (3)  the  Gaels  of 
Lady  Guest's  right  to  appl^  it  to  the  the  North  of  Scotland  speaking  Gaelic: 
whole  of  the  narratives  wnich  she  has  (4)  the  Irish,  although  a  very  profound 
published  is  open  to  doubt.  line    of    demarcation    separates    Ireland 

'  To  avoid  all  misunderstanding,  I  from  the  rest  of  the  Celtic  family.  [It 
ought  to  point  out  that  by  the  word  is  also  necessary  to  point  out  that  Re- 
Celtic  I  designate  here,  not  the  whole  nan  in  this  essay  applies  the  name  Bre- 
of  the  great  race  which,  at  a  remote  ton  both  to  the  Bretons  proper,  i.e.  the 
epoch,  formed  the  population  of  nearly  inhabitants  of  Brittany,  and  to  the  Brit* 
the  whole  of  Western  Europe,  but  sim-  ish  members  of  the  Celtic  race.] 
ply  the  four  groups  which,  in  our  days, 


414  REN  AN 

it  has  lived  solely  on  its  own  capital.  From  this  ensues  that 
powerful  individuality,  that  hatred  of  the  foreigner,  which  even 
in  our  own  days  has  formed  the  essential  feature  of  the  Celtic 
peoples.  Roman  civilization  scarcely  reached  them,  and  left 
among  them  but  few  traces.  The  Teutonic  invasion  drove  them 
back,  but  did  not  penetrate  them.  At  the  present  hour  they  are 
still  constant  in  resistance  to  an  invasion  dangerous  in  an  alto- 
gether different  way — that  of  modern  civilization,  destructive 
as  it  is  of  local  variations  and  national  types.  Ireland  in  par- 
ticular (and  herein  we  perhaps  have  the  secret  of  her  irremedia- 
ble weakness)  is  the  only  country  in  Europe  where  the  native 
can  produce  the  titles  of  his  descent,  and  designate  with  cer- 
tainty, even  in  the  darkness  of  prehistoric  ages,  the  race  from 
which  he  has  sprung. 

It  is  in  this  secluded  life,  in  this  defiance  of  all  that  comes 
from  without,  that  we  must  search  for  the  explanation  of  the 
chief  features  of  the  Celtic  character.  It  has  all  the  failings, 
and  all  the  good  qualities,  of  the  solitary  man;  at  once  proud 
and  timid,  strong  in  feeling  and  feeble  in  action,  at  home  free 
and  unreserved,  to  the  outside  world  awkward  and  embarrassed. 
It  distrusts  the  foreigner,  because  it  sees  in  him  a  being  more  re- 
fined than  itself,  who  abuses  its  simplicity.  Indifferent  to  the 
admiration  of  others,  it  asks  only  one  thing,  that  it  should  be 
left  to  itself.  It  is  before  all  else  a  domestic  race,  fitted  for 
family  life  and  fireside  joys.  In  no  other  race  has  the  bond  of 
blood  been  stronger,  or  has  it  created  more  duties,  or  attached 
man  to  his  fellow  with  so  much  breadth  and  depth.  Every 
social  institution  of  the  Celtic  peoples  was  in  the  beginning 
only  an  extension  of  the  family.  A  common  tradition  attests, 
to  this  very  day,  that  nowhere  has  the  trace  of  this  great  institu- 
tion of  relationship  been  better  preserved  than  in  Brittany. 
There  is  a  widely-spread  belief  in  that  country,  that  blood 
speaks,  and  that  two  relatives,  unknown  one  to  the  other,  in 
any  part  of  the  world  wheresoever  it  may  be,  recognize  each 
other  by  the  secret  and  mysterious  emotion  which  they  feel  in 
each  other's  presence.  Respect  for  the  dead  rests  on  the  same 
principle.  Nowhere  has  reverence  for  the  dead  been  greater 
than  among  the  Breton  peoples ;  nowhere  have  so  many  memo- 
ries and  prayers  clustered  about  the  tomb.  This  is  because  life 
is  not  for  these  people  a  personal  adventure,  undertaken  by 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  415 

each  man  on  his  own  account,  and  at  his  own  risks  and  perils ; 
it  is  a  link  in  a  long  chain,  a  gift  received  and  handed  on,  a 
debt  paid  and  a  duty  done. 

It  is  easily  discernible  how  little  fitted  were  natures  so 
strongly  concentrated  to  furnish  one  of  those  brilliant  develop- 
ments, which  imposes  the  momentary  ascendancy  of  a  people 
on  the  world ;  and  that,  no  doubt,  is  why  the  part  played  ex- 
ternally by  the  Cymric  race  has  always  been  a  secondary  one. 
Destitute  of  the  means  of  expansion,  alien  to  all  idea  of  aggres- 
sion and  conquest,  little  desirous  of  making  its  thought  prevail 
outside  itself,  it  has  only  known  how  to  retire  so  far  as  space  has 
permitted,  and  then,  at  bay  in  its  last  place  of  retreat,  to  make 
an  invincible  resistance  to  its  enemies.  Its  very  fidelity  has 
been  a  useless  devotion.  Stubborn  of  submission  and  ever 
behind  the  age,  it  is  faithful  to  its  conquerors  when  its  con- 
querors are  no  longer  faithful  to  themselves.  It  was  the  last  to 
defend  its  religious  independence  against  Rome — and  it  has 
become  the  staunchest  stronghold  of  Catholicism ;  it  was  the 
last  in  France  to  defend  its  political  independence  against  the 
King — and  it  has  given  to  the  world  the  last  royalists. 

Thus  the  Celtic  race  has  worn  itself  out  in  resistance  to  its 
time,  and  in  the  defence  of  desperate  causes.  It  does  not  seem 
as  though  in  any  epoch  it  had  any  aptitude  for  political  life. 
The  spirit  of  family  stifled  within  it  all  attempts  at  more  ex- 
tended organization.  Moreover,  it  does  not  appear  that  the 
peoples  which  form  it  are  by  themselves  susceptible  of  progress. 
To  them  life  appears  as  a  fixed  condition,  which  man  has  no 
power  to  alter.  Endowed  with  little  initiative,  too  much  in- 
clined to  look  upon  themselves  as  minors  and  in  tutelage,  they 
are  quick  to  believe  in  destiny  and  resign  themselves  to  it. 
Seeing  how  little  audacious  they  are  against  God,  one  would 
scarcely  believe  this  race  to  be  the  daughter  of  Japhet. 

Thence  ensues  its  sadness.  Take  the  songs  of  its  bards  of 
the  sixth  century ;  they  weep  more  defeats  than  they  sing  vic- 
tories. Its  history  is  itself  only  one  long  lament ;  it  still  recalls 
its  exiles,  its  flights  across  the  seas.  If  at  times  it  seems  to  be 
cheerful,  a  tear  is  not  slow  to  glisten  behind  its  smile ;  it  does 
not  know  that  strange  forgetfulness  of  human  conditions  and 
destinies  which  is  called  gayety.  Its  songs  of  joy  end  as  elegies  ; 
there  is  nothing  to  equal  the  delicious  sadness  of  its  national 


4i6  RENAN 

melodies.  One  might  call  them  emanations  from  on  high  which, 
falling  drop  by  drop  upon  the  soul,  pass  through  it  like  mem- 
ories of  another  world.  Never  have  men  feasted  so  long  upon 
these  solitary  delights  of  the  spirit,  these  poetic  memories  which 
simultaneously  intercross  all  the  sensations  of  life,  so  vague,  so 
deep,  so  penetrative,  that  one  might  die  from  them,  without 
being  able  to  say  whether  it  was  from  bitterness  or  sweetness. 

The  infinite  delicacy  of  feeling  which  characterizes  the  Cel- 
tic race  is  closely  allied  to  its  need  of  concentration.  Natures 
that  are  little  capable  of  expansion  are  nearly  always  those  that 
feel  most  deeply,  for  the  deeper  the  feeling,  the  less  it  tends  to 
express  itself.  Thence  we  have  that  charming  shamefastness, 
that  veiled  and  exquisite  sobriety,  equally  far  removed  from 
the  sentimental  rhetoric  too  familiar  to  the  Latin  races,  and 
the  reflective  simplicity  of  Germany,  which  are  so  admirably 
displayed  in  the  ballads  published  by  M.  de  la  Villemarque. 
The  apparent  reserve  of  the  Celtic  peoples,  often  taken  for 
coldness,  is  due  to  this  inward  timidity  which  makes  them  be- 
lieve that  a  feeling  loses  half  its  value  if  it  be  expressed ;  and 
that  the  heart  ought  to  have  no  other  spectator  than  itself. 

If  it  be  permitted  us  to  assign  sex  to  nations  as  to  individuals, 
we  should  have  to  say  without  hesitance  that  the  Celtic  race, 
especially  with  regard  to  its  Cymric  or  Breton  branch,  is  an 
essentially  feminine  race.  No  human  family,  I  believe,  has 
carried  so  much  mystery  into  love.  No  other  has  conceived 
with  more  delicacy  the  ideal  of  woman,  or  been  more  fully 
dominated  by  it.  It  is  a  sort  of  intoxication,  a  madness,  a  ver- 
tigo. Read  the  strange  "  Mabinogi  of  Peredur,"  or  its  French 
imitation  "  Parceval  le  Gallois  " ;  its  pages  are,  as  it  were,  dewy 
with  feminine  sentiment.  Woman  appears  therein  as  a  kind  of 
vague  vision,  an  intermediary  between  man  and  the  super- 
natural world.  I  am  acquainted  with  no  literature  that  offers 
anything  analogous  to  this.  Compare  Guinevere  or  Iseult  with 
those  Scandinavian  furies  Gudrun  and  Chrimhilde,  and  you 
will  avow  that  woman  such  as  chivalry  conceived  her,  an  ideal 
of  sweetness  and  loveliness  set  up  as  the  supreme  end  of  life, 
is  a  creation  neither  classical,  nor  Christian,  nor  Teutonic,  but 
in  reality  Celtic. 

Imaginative  power  is  nearly  always  proportionate  to  con- 
centration of  feeling,  and  lack  of  the  external  development  of 
life.     The  limited  nature  of  Greek  and  Italian  imagination  is 


THE   POETRY    OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  417 

due  to  the  easy  expansiveness  of  the  peoples  of  the  South,  with 
whom  the  soul,  wholly  spread  abroad,  reflects  but  little  within 
itself.  Compared  with  the  classical  imagination,  the  Celtic 
imagination  is  indeed  the  infinite  contrasted  with  the  finite.  In 
the  fine  Mabinogi  of  the  "  Dream  of  Maxem  Wledig,"  the  Em- 
peror Maximus  beholds  in  a  dream  a  young  maiden  so  beautiful 
that  on  waking  he  declares  he  cannot  live  without  her.  For 
several  years  his  envoys  scour  the  world  in  search  of  her;  at 
last  she  is  discovered  in  Brittany.  So  is  it  with  the  Celtic  race ; 
it  has  worn  itself  out  in  taking  dreams  for  realities,  and  in  pur- 
suing its  splendid  visions.  The  essential  element  in  the  Celt's 
poetic  life  is  the  adventure — that  is  to  say,  the  pursuit  of  the 
unknown,  an  endless  quest  after  an  object  ever  flying  from 
desire.  It  was  of  this  that  St.  Brandan  dreamed,  that  Peredur 
sought  with  his  mystic  chivalry,  that  Knight  Owen  asked  of  his 
subterranean  journeyings.  This  race  desires  the  infinite,  it 
thirsts  for  it,  and  pursues  it  at  all  costs,  beyond  the  tomb,  be- 
yond hell  itself.  The  characteristic  failing  of  the  Breton  peo- 
ples, the  tendency  to  drunkenness — a  failing  which,  according 
to  the  traditions  of  the  sixth  century,  was  the  cause  of  their 
disasters — is  due  to  this  invincible  need  of  illusion.  Do  not  say 
that  it  is  an  appetite  for  gross  enjoyment ;  never  has  there  been 
a  people  more  sober  and  more  alien  to  all  sensuality.  No,  the 
Bretons  sought  in  mead  what  Owen,  St.  Brandan,  and  Peredur 
sought  in  their  own  way — the  vision  of  the  invisible  world. 
To  this  day  in  Ireland  drunkenness  forms  a  part  of  all  Saint's 
Day  festivals — that  is  to  say,  the  festivals  which  best  have  re- 
tained their  national  and  popular  aspect. 

Thence  arises  the  profound  sense  of  the  future  and  of  the 
eternal  destinies  of  his  race,  which  has  ever  borne  up  the  Cymry, 
and  kept  him  young  still  beside  his  conquerors  who  have  grown 
old.  Thence  that  dogma  of  the  resurrection  of  the  heroes, 
which  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  that  Christianity  found 
most  difficulty  in  rooting  out.  Thence  Celtic  Messianism,  that 
belief  in  a  future  avenger  who  shall  restore  Cambria,  and  deliver 
her  out  of  the  hands  of  her  oppressors,  like  the  mysterious 
Leminok  promised  by  Merlin,  the  Lez-Breiz  of  the  Armori- 
cans,  the  Arthur  of  the  Welsh.'    The  hand  that  arose  from  the 

■  M.  Augustin  Thierry  ("  Histoire  de  Welsh  prophecies  in  the  Middle  Ages 
la  Conquete  d'Angleterre  ")  has  finely  was  due  to  their  steadfastness  in  af< 
remarked  that  the  renown  attaching  to       firming  the  future  of  their  race. 


41 8  REN  AN 

mere,  when  the  sword  of  Arthur  fell  therein,  that  seized  it,  and 
brandished  it  thrice,  is  the  hope  of  the  Celtic  races.  It  is  thus 
that  little  peoples  dowered  with  imagination  revenge  themselves 
on  their  conquerors.  Feeling  themselves  to  be  strong  inwardly 
and  weak  outwardly,  they  protest,  they  exult;  and  such  a 
strife  unloosing  their  might,  renders  them  capable  of  miracles. 
Nearly  all  great  appeals  to  the  supernatural  are  due  to  peoples 
hoping  against  all  hope.  Who  shall  say  what  in  our  own  times 
has  fermented  in  the  bosom  of  the  most  stubborn,  the  most 
powerless  of  nationalities — Poland?  Israel  in  humiliation 
dreamed  of  the  spiritual  conquest  of  the  world,  and  the  dream 
has  come  to  pass. 

II 

At  a  first  glance  the  literature  of  Wales  is  divided  into  three 
perfectly  distinct  branches:  the  bardic  or  lyric,  which  shines 
forth  in  splendor  in  the  sixth  century  by  the  works  of  Taliessin, 
of  Aneurin,  and  of  Liwarc'h  Hen,  and  continues  through  an 
uninterrupted  series  of  imitations  up  to  modern  times;  the 
Mahinogion,  or  literature  of  romance,  fixed  towards  the  twelfth 
century,  but  linking  themselves  in  the  groundwork  of  their 
ideas  with  the  remotest  ages  of  the  Celtic  genius;  finally,  an 
ecclesiastical  and  legendary  literature,  impressed  with  a  dis- 
tinct stamp  of  its  own.  These  three  literatures  seem  to  have 
existed  side  by  side,  almost  without  knowledge  of  one  another. 
The  bards,  proud  of  their  solemn  rhetoric,  held  in  disdain  the 
popular  tales,  the  form  of  which  they  considered  careless ;  on 
the  other  hand,  both  bards  and  romancers  appear  to  have  had 
few  relations  with  the  clergy;  and  one  at  times  might  be 
tempted  to  suppose  that  they  ignored  the  existence  of  Christian- 
ity. To  our  thinking  it  is  in  the  Mahinogion  that  the  true  ex- 
pression of  the  Celtic  genius  is  to  be  sought ;  and  it  is  surprising 
that  so  curious  a  literature,  the  source  of  nearly  all  the  romantic 
creations  of  Europe,  should  have  remained  unknown  until  our 
own  days.  The  cause  is  doubtless  to  be  ascribed  to  the  dis- 
persed state  of  the  Welsh  manuscripts,  pursued  till  last  century 
by  the  English  as  seditious  books  compromising  those  who  pos- 
sessed them.  Often  too  they  foil  into  the  hands  of  ignorant 
owners,  wliose  caprice  or  ill-will  sufficed  to  keep  them  from 
critical  research. 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE  CELTIC   RACES  419 

The  Mabinogion  have  been  preserved  for  us  in  two  principal 
documents — one  of  the  thirteenth  century  from  the  Hbrary  of 
Hengurt,  belonging  to  the  Vaughan  family ;  the  other  dating 
from  the  fourteenth  century,  known  under  the  name  of  the 
"  Red  Book  of  Hergest,"  and  now  in  Jesus  College,  Oxford. 
No  doubt  it  was  some  such  collection  that  charmed  the  weary 
hours  of  the  hapless  Leolin  in  the  Tower  of  London,  and  was 
burned  after  his  condemnation,  with  the  other  Welsh  books 
which  had  been  the  companions  of  his  captivity.  Lady  Char- 
lotte Guest  has  based  her  edition  on  the  Oxford  manuscript ;  it 
cannot  be  sufficiently  regretted  that  paltry  considerations  have 
caused  her  to  be  refused  the  use  of  the  earlier  manuscript,  of 
which  the  later  appears  to  be  only  a  copy.  Regrets  are  re- 
doubled when  one  knows  that  several  Welsh  texts,  which  were 
seen  and  copied  fifty  years  ago,  have  now  disappeared.  It  is  in 
the  presence  of  facts  such  as  these  that  one  comes  to  believe  that 
revolutions — in  general  so  destructive  of  the  works  of  the  past 
— are  favorable  to  the  preservation  of  literary  monuments,  by 
compelling  their  concentration  in  great  centres,  where  their 
existence,  as  well  as  their  publicity,  is  assured. 

The  general  tone  of  the  Mabinogion  is  rather  romantic  than 
epic.  Life  is  treated  naively  and  not  too  emphatically.  The 
hero's  individuality  is  limitless.  We  have  free  and  noble  natures 
acting  in  all  their  spontaneity.  Each  man  appears  as  a  kind 
of  demi-god  characterized  by  a  supernatural  gift.  This  gift  is 
nearly  always  connected  with  some  miraculous  object,  which 
in  some  measure  is  the  personal  seal  of  him  who  possesses  it. 
The  inferior  classes,  which  this  people  of  heroes  necessarily 
supposes  beneath  it,  scarcely  show  themselves,  except  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  some  trade,  for  practising  which  they  are  held  in  high 
esteem.  The  somewhat  complicated  products  of  human  in- 
dustry are  regarded  as  living  beings,  and  in  their  manner  en» 
dowed  with  magical  properties.  A  multiplicity  of  celebrated 
objects  have  proper  names,  such  as  the  drinking-cup,  the  lance, 
the  sword,  and  the  shield  of  Arthur ;  the  chess-board  of  Gwen- 
dolen, on  which  the  black  pieces  played  of  their  own  accord 
against  the  white;  the  horn  of  Bran  Galed,  where  one  found 
whatever  liquor  one  desired ;  the  chariot  of  Morgan,  which 
directed  itself  to  the  place  to  which  one  wished  to  go ;  the  pot 
of  Tyrnog,  which  would  not  cook  when  meat  for  a  coward  was 


420  RENAN 

put  into  it;  the  grindstone  of  Tudwal,  which  would  only; 
sharpen  brave  men's  swords ;  the  coat  of  Padarn,  which  none 
save  a  noble  could  don;  and  the  mantle  of  Tegan,  which  no 
woman  could  put  upon  herself  were  she  not  above  reproach.* 
The  animal  is  conceived  in  a  still  more  individual  way ;  it  has  a 
proper  name,  personal  qualities,  and  a  role  which  it  develops  at 
its  own  will  and  with  full  consciousness.  The  same  hero  ap- 
pears as  at  once  man  and  animal,  without  it  being  possible  to 
trace  the  line  of  demarcation  between  the  two  natures. 

The  tale  of  "  Kilhwch  and  Olwen,''  the  most  extraordinary 
«if  the  Mabinogion,  deals  with  Arthur's  struggle  against  the 
wild-boar  King  Twrch  Trwyth,  who  with  his  seven  cubs  holds 
in  check  all  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table.  The  adventures  of 
the  three  hundred  ravens  of  Kerverhenn  similarly  form  the  sub- 
ject of  the  "  Dream  of  Rhonabwy."  The  idea  of  moral  merit 
and  demerit  is  almost  wholly  absent  from  all  these  composi- 
tions. There  are  wicked  beings  who  insult  ladies,  who  tyran- 
nize over  their  neighbors,  who  only  find  pleasure  in  evil  because 
such  is  their  nature;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  they  incur 
wrath  on  that  account.  Arthur's  knights  pursue  them,  not  as 
criminals,  but  as  mischievous  fellows.  All  other  beings  are 
perfectly  good  and  just,  but  more  or  less  richly  gifted.  This 
is  the  dream  of  an  amiable  and  gentle  race  which  looks  upon 
evil  as  being  the  work  of  destiny,  and  not  a  product  of  the  hu- 
man conscience.  All  nature  is  enchanted,  and  fruitful  as  im- 
agination itself  in  indefinitely  varied  creations.  Christianity 
rarely  discloses  itself;  although  at  times  its  proximity  can  be 
felt,  it  alters  in  no  respect  the  purely  natural  surroundings  in 
which  everything  takes  place.  A  bishop  figures  at  table  beside 
Arthur,  but  his  function  is  strictly  limited  to  blessing  the  dishes. 
The  Irish  saints,  who  at  one  time  present  themselves  to  give 
their  benediction  to  Arthur  and  receive  favors  at  his  hands,  are 
portrayed  as  a  race  of  men  vaguely  known  and  difficult  to  un- 
derstand. No  mediaeval  literature  held  itself  further  removed 
from  all  monastic  influence.  We  evidently  must  suppose  that 
the  vVelsh  bards  and  story-tellers  lived  in  a  state  of  great  isola- 
tion from  the  clergy,  and  had  their  culture  and  traditions  quite 
apart. 

*  Here  may  be  rccoRnizcd  the  origin  most  interesting  episodes  in  "  Lancelot 
of   trial    by    court    mantle,    one   of    the       oi  the  Lake." 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  CELTIC  RACES      421 

The  charm  of  the  Mabinogion  principally  resides  in  the 
amiable  serenity  of  the  Celtic  mind,  neither  sad  nor  gay,  ever 
in  suspense  between  a  smile  and  a  tear.  We  have  in  them  the 
simple  recital  of  a  child,  unwitting  of  any  distinction  between 
the  noble  and  the  common ;  there  is  something  of  that  softly 
animated  world,  of  that  calm  and  tranquil  ideal  to  which  Ari- 
osto's  stanzas  transport  us.  The  chatter  of  the  later  mediaeval 
French  and  German  imitators  can  give  no  idea  of  this  charming 
manner  of  narration.  The  skilful  Chretien  de  Troyes  himself 
remains  in  this  respect  far  below  the  Welsh  story-tellers,  and 
as  for  Wolfram  of  Eschenbach,  it  must  be  avowed  that  the  joy 
of  the  first  discovery  has  carried  German  critics  too  far  in  the 
exaggeration  of  his  merits.  He  loses  himself  in  interminable 
descriptions,  and  almost  completely  ignores  the  art  of  his  recital. 

What  strikes  one  at  a  first  glance  in  the  imaginative  com- 
positions of  the  Celtic  races,  above  all  when  they  are  contrasted 
with  those  of  the  Teutonic  races,  is  the  extreme  mildness  of 
manners  pervading  them.  There  are  none  of  those  frightful 
vengeances  which  fill  the  "  Edda  "  and  the  "  Niebelungen." 
Compare  the  Teutonic  with  the  Gaelic  hero — Beowulf  with 
Peredur,  for  example.  What  a  difference  there  is !  In  the  one 
all  the  horror  of  disgusting  and  blood-embrued  barbarism,  the 
drunkenness  of  carnage,  the  disinterested  taste,  if  I  may  say  so, 
for  destruction  and  death ;  in  the  other  a  profound  sense  of 
justice,  a  great  height  of  personal  pride,  it  is  true,  but  also  a 
great  capacity  for  devotion,  an  exquisite  loyalty.  The  tyran- 
nical man,  the  monster,  the  Black  Man,  find  a  place  here,  like  the 
Lestrigons  and  the  Cyclops  of  Homer,  only  to  inspire  horror 
by  contrast  with  softer  manners;  they  are  almost  what  the 
wicked  man  is  in  the  naive  imagination  of  a  child  brought  up 
by  a  mother  in  the  ideas  of  a  gentle  and  pious  morality.  The 
primitive  man  of  Teutonism  is  revolting  by  his  purposeless  bru- 
tality, by  a  love  of  evil  that  only  gives  him  skill  and  strength 
in  the  service  of  hatred  and  injury.  The  Cymric  hero  on  the 
other  hand,  even  in  his  wildest  flights,  seems  possessed  by  hab- 
its of  kindness  and  a  warm  sympathy  with  the  weak.  Sympathy 
indeed  is  one  of  the  deepest  feelings  among  the  Celtic  peoples. 
Even  Judas  is  not  denied  a  share  of  their  pity.  St.  Brandaa 
found  him  upon  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  Polar  seas ;  once  a 
.week  he  passes  a  day  there  to  refresh  himself  from  the  fires  of 


422  RENAN 

hell.  A  cloak  that  he  had  given  to  a  beggar  is  hung  before  him, 
and  tempers  his  sufferings. 

If  Wales  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  her  Mabinogion,  she  has 
not  less  to  felicitate  herself  in  having  found  a  translator  truly 
worthy  of  interpreting  them.  For  the  proper  understanding  of 
these  original  beauties  there  was  needed  a  delicate  appreciation 
of  Welsh  narration,  and  an  intelligence  of  the  naive  order,  qual- 
ities of  which  an  erudite  translator  would  with  difficulty  have 
been  capable.  To  render  these  gracious  imaginings  of  a  people 
so  eminently  dowered  with  feminine  tact,  the  pen  of  a  woman 
was  necessary.  Simple,  animated,  without  effort  and  without 
vulgarity,  Lady  Guest's  translation  is  the  faithful  mirror  of  the 
original  Cymric.  Even  supposing  that,  as  regards  philology, 
the  labors  of  this  noble  Welsh  lady  be  destined  to  receive  im- 
provement, that  does  not  prevent  her  book  from  forever  re- 
maining a  work  of  erudition  and  highly  distinguished  taste.^ 

The  Mabinogion,  or  at  least  the  writings  which  Lady  Guest 
thought  she  ought  to  include  under  this  common  name,  divide 
themselves  into  two  perfectly  distinct  classes — some  connected 
exclusively  with  the  two  peninsulas  of  Wales  and  Cornwall,  and 
relating  to  the  heroic  personality  of  Arthur;  the  others  alien 
to  Arthur,  having  for  their  scene  not  only  the  parts  of  England 
that  have  remained  Cymric,  but  the  whole  of  Great  Britain,  and 
leading  us  back  by  the  persons  and  traditions  mentioned  in  them 
to  the  later  years  of  the  Roman  occupation.  The  second  class, 
of  greater  antiquity  than  the  first,  at  least  on  the  ground  of 
subject,  is  also  distinguished  by  a  much  more  mythological 
character,  a  bolder  use  of  the  miraculous,  an  enigmatical  form, 
a  style  full  of  alliteration  and  plays  upon  words.  Of  this  num- 
ber are  the  tales  of  "  Pwyll,"  of  "  Branwen,"  of  "  Manawyd- 
dan,"  of  "  Math  the  son  of  Mathonwy,"  the  "  Dream  of  the  Em- 
peror Maximus,"  the  story  of  "  Llud  and  Llewelys,"  and  the 
legend  of  Taliessin.  To  the  Arthurian  cycle  belong  the  narra- 
tives of  "  Owen,"  of  "  Geraint,"  of  "  Peredur,"  of  "  Kilhwch 
and  Olwen,"  and  the  "  Dream  of  Rhonabwy.**  It  is  also  to  be 
remarked  that  the  two  last-named  narratives  have  a  particularly 
antique  character.     In  them  Arthur  dwells  in  Cornwall,  and 

'  M.  de  la  Villemarqui  published  in  translation  of  the  narratives  that  Lady 
1842  under  the  title  of  "  Contes  popn-  Guest  had  already  presented  in  Englisn 
laires  des  anciens  Bretons."  a  French       at  that  time. 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  CELTIC   RACES  423 

not  as  in  the  others  at  Caerleon  on  the  Usk.  In  them  he  ap- 
pears with  an  individual  character,  hunting  and  taking  a  per- 
sonal part  in  warfare,  while  in  the  more  modern  tales  he  is  only 
an  emperor  all-powerful  and  impassive,  a  truly  sluggard  hero, 
around  whom  a  pleiad  of  active  heroes  groups  itself.  The 
Mabinogi  of  "  Kilhwch  and  Olwen,"  by  its  entirely  primitive 
aspect,  by  the  part  played  in  it  by  the  wild-boar  in  conformity 
to  the  spirit  of  Celtic  mythology,  by  the  wholly  supernatural 
and  magical  character  of  the  narration,  by  innumerable  allu- 
sions the  sense  of  which  escapes  us,  forms  a  cycle  by  itself.  It 
represents  for  us  the  Cymric  conception  in  all  its  purity,  before 
it  had  been  modified  by  the  introduction  of  any  foreign  ele- 
ment. Without  attempting  here  to  analyze  this  curious  poem, 
I  should  like  by  some  extracts  to  make  its  antique  aspect  and 
high  originality  apparent. 

Kilhwch,  son  of  Kilydd,  prince  of  Kelyddon,  having  heard 
some  one  mention  the  name  of  Olwen,  daughter  of  Yspaddaden 
Penkawr,  falls  violently  in  love,  without  having  ever  seen  her. 
He  goes  to  find  Arthur,  that  he  may  ask  for  his  aid  in  the  diffi- 
cult undertaking  which  he  meditates ;  in  point  of  fact,  he  does 
not  know  in  what  country  the  fair  one  of  his  affection  dwells. 
Yspaddaden  is  besides  a  frightful  tyrant  who  suffers  no  man 
to  go  from  his  castle  alive,  and  whose  death  is  linked  by  des- 
tiny to  the  marriage  of  his  daughter.*  Arthur  grants  Kilhwch 
some  of  his  most  valiant  comrades  in  arms  to  assist  him  in  this 
enterprise.  After  wonderful  adventures  the  knights  arrive  at 
the  castle  of  Yspaddaden,  and  succeed  in  seeing  the  young  maid- 
en of  Kilhwch's  dream.  Only  after  three  days  of  persistent 
struggle  do  they  manage  to  obtain  a  response  from  Olwen's 
father,  who  attaches  his  daughter's  hand  to  conditions  appar- 
ently impossible  of  realization.  The  performance  of  these  trials 
makes  a  long  chain  of  adventures,  the  framework  of  a  veritable 
romantic  epic  which  has  come  to  us  in  a  very  fragmentary  form. 
Of  the  thirty-eight  adventures  imposed  on  Kilhwch  the  manu- 
script used  by  Lady  Guest  only  relates  seven  or  eight.  I  choose 
at  random  one  of  these  narratives,  which  appears  to  me  fitted 
to  give  an  idea  of  the  whole  composition.    It  deals  with  the  find- 

*  The  idea  of  making  the  death  of  the       eral   romances  of  the   Breton  cycle,   in 
fnther    the    condition    of    possession    of       "  Lancelot  "  for  example. 
the   daughter    is    to    be    found    in    sey 


424  RENAN 

ing  of  Mabon  the  son  of  Modron,  who  was  carried  away  from 
his  mother  three  days  after  his  birth,  and  whose  dehverance  is 
one  of  the  labors  exacted  of  Kilhwch. 

"  His  followers  said  unto  Arthur,  *  Lord,  go  thou  home ; 
thou  canst  not  proceed  with  thy  host  in  quest  of  such  small 
adventures  as  these.'  Then  said  Arthur,  *  It  were  well  for  thee, 
Gwrhyr  Gwalstawd  leithoedd,  to  go  upon  this  quest,  for  thou 
knowest  all  languages,  and  art  familiar  with  those  of  the  birds 
and  the  beasts.  Thou,  Eidoel,  oughtest  likewise  to  go  with  my 
men  in  search  of  thy  cousin.  And  as  for  you,  Kai  and  Bedwyr, 
I  have  hope  of  whatever  adventure  ye  are  in  quest  of,  that  ye 
will  achieve  it.    Achieve  ye  this  adventure  for  me.'  " 

They  went  forward  until  they  came  to  the  Ousel  of  Cilgwri. 
And  Gwrhyr  adjured  her  for  the  sake  of  Heaven,  saying,  "  Tell 
me  if  thou  knowest  aught  of  INIabon  the  son  of  Modron,  who 
was  taken  when  three  nights  old  from  between  his  mother  and 
the  wall."  And  the  Ousel  answered,  "  When  I  first  came  here 
there  was  a  smith's  anvil  in  this  place,  and  I  was  then  a  young 
bird ;  and  from  that  time  no  work  has  been  done  upon  it,  save 
the  pecking  of  my  beak  every  evening,  and  now  there  is  not  so 
much  as  the  size  of  a  nut  remaining  thereof;  yet  all  the  ven- 
geance of  Heaven  be  upon  me,  if  during  all  that  time  I  have  ever 
heard  of  the  man  for  whom  you  inquire.  Nevertheless  I  will 
do  that  which  is  right,  and  that  which  it  is  fitting  I  should  do 
for  an  embassy  from  Arthur.  There  is  a  race  of  animals  who 
were  formed  before  me,  and  I  will  be  your  guide  to  them." 

So  they  proceeded  to  the  place  where  was  the  Stag  of  Red- 
ynvre.  "  Stag  of  Redynvre,  behold  we  are  come  to  thee,  an  em- 
bassy from  Arthur,  for  we  have  not  heard  of  any  animal  older 
than  thou.  Say,  knowest  thou  aught  of  Mabon  the  son  of  Mo- 
dron, who  was  taken  from  his  mother  when  three  nights  old?  " 
The  Stag  said,  "  When  first  I  came  hither  there  was  a  plain  all 
around  me,  without  any  trees  save  one  oak  sapling,  which  grew 
up  to  be  an  oak  with  a  hundred  branches.  And  that  oak  has 
since  perished,  so  that  now  nothing  remains  of  it  but  the  with- 
ered stump;  and  from  that  day  to  this  I  have  been  here,  yet 
have  I  never  heard  of  the  man  for  whom  you  inquire.  Never- 
theless, being  an  embassy  from  Arthur,  I  will  be  your  guide  to 
the  place  where  there  is  an  animal  which  was  formed  before  I 
was." 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  425 

So  they  proceeded  to  the  place  where  was  the  Owl  of  Cwm 
Cawlwyd.  "  Owl  of  Cwm  Cawlwyd,  here  is  an  embassy  from 
Arthur ;  knowest  thou  aught  of  Mabon  the  son  of  Modron, 
who  was  taken  after  three  nights  from  his  mother?"  "  If  I 
knew  I  would  tell  you.  When  first  I  came  hither,  the  wide  val- 
ley you  see  was  a  wooded  glen.  And  a  race  of  men  came  and 
rooted  it  up.  And  there  grew  there  a  second  wood ;  and  this 
wood  is  the  third.  My  wings,  are  they  not  withered  stumps  ? 
Yet  all  this  time,  even  until  to-day,  I  have  never  heard  of  the 
man  for  whom  you  inquire.  Nevertheless  I  will  be  the  guide 
of  Arthur's  embassy  until  you  come  to  the  place  where  is  the 
oldest  animal  in  the  world,  and  the  one  that  has  travelled  most, 
the  Eagle  of  Gwern  Abwy." 

Gwrhyr  said,  "  Eagle  of  Gwern  Abwy,  we  have  come  to 
thee  an  embassy  from  Arthur,  to  ask  thee  if  thou  knowest  aught 
of  Mabon  the  son  of  Modron,  who  was  taken  from  his  mother 
when  he  was  three  nights  old."  The  Eagle  said,  "  I  have  been 
here  for  a  great  space  of  time,  and  when  I  first  came  hither 
there  was  a  rock  here,  from  the  top  of  which  I  pecked  at  the 
stars  every  evening ;  and  now  it  is  not  so  much  as  a  span  high. 
From  that  day  to  this  I  have  been  here,  and  I  have  never  heard 
of  the  man  for  whom  you  inquire,  except  once  when  I  went  in 
search  of  food  as  far  as  Llyn  Llyw.  And  when  I  came  there,  I 
struck  my  talons  into  a  salmon,  thinking  he  would  serve  me 
as  food  for  a  long  time.  But  he  drew  me  into  the  deep,  and  I 
was  scarcely  able  to  escape  from  him.  After  that  I  went  with 
my  whole  kindred  to  attack  him,  and  to  try  to  destroy  him,  but 
he  sent  messengers,  and  made  peace  with  me ;  and  came  and 
besought  me  to  take  fifty  fish  spears  out  of  his  back.  Unless  he 
know  something  of  him  whom  you  seek,  I  cannot  tell  who  may. 
However,  I  will  guide  you  to  the  place  where  he  is." 

So  they  went  thither;  and  the  Eagle  said,  "  Salmon  of  Llyn 

Llyw,  I  have  come  to  thee  with  an  embassy  from  Arthur,  to 

ask  thee  if  thou  knowest  aught  concerning  Mabon  the  son  of 

Modron,  who  was  taken  away  at  three  nights  old  from  his 

mother."    "  As  much  as  I  know  I  will  tell  thee.    With  every 

tide  I  go  along  the  river  upwards,  until  I  come  near  to  the  walls 

of  Gloucester,  and  there  have  I  found  such  wrong  as  I  never 

found  elsewhere ;    and  to  the  end  that  ye  may  give  credence 

thereto,  let  one  of  you  go  thither  upon  each  of  my  two  shoul- 

S— Vol.  60 


426  RENAN 

ders."  So  Kai  and  Gwrhyr  Gwalstawd  leithoedd  went  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  salmon,  and  they  proceeded  until  they 
came  unto  the  wall  of  the  prison,  and  they  heard  a  great  wailing 
and  lamenting  from  the  dungeon.  Said  Gwrhyr,  "  Who  is  it 
that  laments  in  this  house  of  stone  ?  "  "  Alas  there  is  reason 
enough  for  whoever  is  here  to  lament.  It  is  Mabon  the  son 
of  Modron  who  is  here  imprisoned ;  and  no  imprisonment  was 
ever  so  grievous  as  mine,  neither  that  of  Lludd  Llaw  Ereint,  nor 
that  of  Greid  the  son  of  Eri."  "  Hast  thou  hope  of  being  re- 
leased for  gold  or  for  silver,  or  for  any  gifts  of  wealth,  or 
through  battle  and  fighting?"  "  By  fighting  will  whatever  I 
may  gain  be  obtained." 

We  shall  not  follow  the  Cymric  hero  through  trials  the  re- 
sult of  which  can  be  foreseen.  What,  above  all  else,  is  striking 
in  these  strange  legends  is  the  part  played  by  animals,  trans- 
formed by  the  Welsh  imagination  into  intelligent  beings.  No 
race  conversed  so  intimately  as  did  the  Celtic  race  with  the 
lower  creation,  and  accorded  it  so  large  a  share  of  moral  life.' 
The  close  association  of  man  and  animal,  the  fictions  so  dear  to 
mediaeval  poetry  of  the  Knight  of  the  Lion,  the  Knight  of  the 
Falcon,  the  Knight  of  the  Swan,  the  vows  consecrated  by  the 
presence  of  birds  of  noble  repute,  are  equally  Breton  imagin- 
ings. Ecclesiastical  literature  itself  presents  analogous  feat- 
ures ;  gentleness  towards  animals  informs  all  the  legends  of  the 
saints  of  Brittany  and  Ireland.  One  day  St.  Kevin  fell  asleep 
while  he  was  praying  at  his  window  with  outstretched  arms; 
and  a  swallow  perceiving  the  open  hand  of  the  venerable  monk, 
considered  it  an  excellent  place  wherein  to  make  her  nest.  The 
saint  on  awaking  saw  the  mother  sitting  upon  her  eggs,  and, 
loath  to  disturb  her,  waited  for  the  little  ones  to  be  hatched 
before  he  arose  from  his  knees. 

This  touching  sympathy  was  derived  from  the  singular  vi- 
vacity with  which  the  Celtic  races  have  inspired  their  feeling 
for  nature.  Their  mythology  is  nothing  more  than  a  trans- 
parent naturalism,  not  that  anthropomorphic  naturalism  of 
Greece  and  India,  in  which  the  forces  of  the  universe,  viewed 
as  living  beings  and  endowed  with  consciousness,  tend  more 
and  more  to  detach  themselves  from  physical  phenomena,  and 

'  Sec  especially  the  narratives  of  Nen-       them  animals  have  at  least  as  important 
Dius.  and  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis.     In       a  part  as  men. 


THE    POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC    RACES  427 

to  become  moral  beings ;  but  in  some  measure  a  realistic  natu- 
ralism, the  love  of  nature  for  herself,  the  vivid  impression  of  her 
magic,  accompanied  by  the  sorrowful  feeling  that  man  knows, 
when,  face  to  face  with  her,  he  believes  that  he  hears  her  com- 
mune with  him  concerning  his  origin  and  his  destiny.  The 
legend  of  Merlin  mirrors  this  feeling.  Seduced  by  a  fairy  of 
the  woods,  he  flies  with  her  and  becomes  a  savage.  Arthur's 
messengers  come  upon  him  as  he  is  singing  by  the  side  of  a 
fountain ;  he  is  led  back  again  to  court ;  but  the  charm  carries 
him  away.  He  returns  to  his  forests,  and  this  time  forever. 
Under  a  thicket  of  hawthorn  Vivien  has  built  him  a  magical 
prison.  There  he  prophesies  the  future  of  the  Celtic  races  ;  he 
speaks  of  a  maiden  of  the  woods,  now  visible  and  now  unseen, 
who  holds  him  captive  by  her  spells.  Several  Arthurian  legends 
are  impressed  with  the  same  character.  Arthur  himself  in 
popular  belief  became,  as  it  were,  a  woodland  spirit.  "  The 
foresters  on  their  nightly  round  by  the  light  of  the  moon,"  says 
Gervais  of  Tilbury,  "  often  hear  a  great  sound  as  of  horns,  and 
meet  bands  of  huntsmen;  when  they  are  asked  whence  they 
come,  these  huntsmen  make  reply  that  they  are  of  King  Ar- 
thur's following."  ^  Even  the  French  imitators  of  the  Breton 
romances  keep  an  impression — although  a  rather  insipid  one 
— of  the  attraction  exercised  by  nature  on  the  Celtic  imagina- 
tion. Elaine,  the  heroine  of  Lancelot,  the  ideal  of  Breton  per- 
fection, passes  her  life  with  her  companions  in  a  garden,  in  the 
midst  of  flowers  which  she  tends.  Every  flower  culled  by  her 
hands  is  at  the  instant  restored  to  life ;  and  the  worshippers  of 
her  memory  are  under  an  obligation,  when  they  cut  a  flower,  to 
sow  another  in  its  place. 

The  worship  of  forest,  and  fountain,  and  stone  is  to  be  ex- 
plained by  this  primitive  naturalism,  which  all  the  councils 
of  the  Church  held  in  Brittany  united  to  proscribe.  The  stone, 
in  truth,  seems  the  natural  symbol  of  the  Celtic  races.  It  is  an 
immutable  witness  that  has  no  death.  The  animal,  the  plant, 
above  all  the  human  figure,  only  express  the  divine  life  under 
a  determinate  form ;  the  stone  on  the  contrary,  adapted  to  re- 

•  This    manner   of   explaining   all    the  may   say   so,    of   landscape   among   the 

unknown  noises  of  the   wood   by   "  Ar-  Celts,  see  Gildas  and  Nennius,  pp.  131, 

thur's    hunting  "    is    still    to    be    found  136,  137,  etc.     (Edit.  San  Marte,  Berhn« 

in     several     districts.       To     understand  1844.) 
properly  the  cult  of  nature,  and.  if  I 


428  REN  AN 

ceive  all  forms,  has  been  the  fetich  of  peoples  in  their  childhood. 
Pausanias  saw,  still  standing  erect,  the  thirty  square  stones  of 
Pharae,  each  bearing  the  name  of  a  divinity.  The  men-hir 
to  be  met  with  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  ancient  world,  what 
is  it  but  the  monument  of  primitive  humanity,  a  living  witness 
of  its  faith  in  Heaven  ?  ^ 

It  has  frequently  been  observed  that  the  majority  of  popular 
beliefs  still  extant  in  our  different  provinces  are  of  Celtic  origin. 
A  not  less  remarkable  fact  is  the  strong  tinge  of  naturalism 
dominant  in  these  beliefs.  Nay  more,  every  time  that  the  old 
Celtic  spirit  appears  in  our  history,  there  is  to  be  seen,  re-bom 
with  it,  faith  in  nature  and  her  magic  influences.  One  of  the 
most  characteristic  of  these  manifestations  seems  to  me  to  be 
that  of  Joan  of  Arc.  That  indomitable  hope,  that  tenacity  in  the 
affirmation  of  the  future,  that  belief  that  the  salvation  of  the 
kingdom  will  come  from  a  woman — all  those  features,  far  re- 
moved as  they  are  from  the  taste  of  antiquity,  and  from  Teu- 
tonic taste,  are  in  many  respects  Celtic.  The  memory  of  the 
ancient  cult  perpetuated  itself  at  Domremy,  as  in  so  many  other 
places,  under  the  form  of  popular  superstition.  The  cottage  of 
the  family  of  Arc  was  shaded  by  a  beech  tree,  famed  in  the 
country  and  reputed  to  be  the  abode  of  fairies.  In  her  child- 
hood Joan  used  to  go  and  hang  upon  its  branches  garlands  of 
leaves  and  flowers,  which,  so  it  was  said,  disappeared  during  the 
night.  The  terms  of  her  accusation  speak  with  horror  of  this 
innocent  custom,  as  of  a  crime  against  the  faith ;  and  indeed 
they  were  not  altogether  deceived,  those  unpitying  theologians 
who  judged  the  holy  maid.  Although  she  knew  it  not,  she  was 
more  Celtic  than  Christian.  She  has  been  foretold  by  Merlin ; 
she  knows  of  neither  Pope  nor  Church — she  only  believes  the 
voice  that  speaks  in  her  own  heart.  This  voice  she  hears  in 
the  fields,  in  the  sough  of  the  wind  among  the  trees,  when 
measured  and  distant  sounds  fall  upon  her  ears.  During  her 
trial,  worn  out  with  questions  and  scholastic  subtleties,  she  is 
asked  whether  she  still  hears  her  voices.  "*Take  me  to  the 
woods,"  she  says,  "  and  I  shall  hear  them  clearly."    Her  legend 

•It  is,  however,  doubtful  whether  the  helofiR    to    a    more    ancient    humanity, 

monuments  known   in   France  as  Celtic  Never,   in   fact,   has  any   branch   of  the 

(men-hir,  ikil-mrn,  etc.)  are  the  work  of  Indo-FInropcan   race   built    in    this   fash- 

the    Celts.      With    M.    VVnrsaac   and    the  ion.      (Sec   two  articles  by  M.    M^rim^e 

CopenhaRcn     arch.-coloffists,     I     am     in-  in    "  I^'Athcn.-eum    frangais,"    Sept.     11* 

dined   to   think   that  these   monuments  1853,  and  April  35,  1853.) 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  429 

is  tinged  with  the  same  colors;  nature  loved  her,  the  wolves 
never  touched  the  sheep  of  her  flock.  When  she  was  a  little 
girl,  the  birds  used  to  come  and  eat  bread  from  her  lap  as 
though  they  were  tame.^" 


Ill 

The  Mahinogion  do  not  recommend  themselves  to  our  study, 
only  as  a  manifestation  of  the  romantic  genius  of  the  Breton 
races.  It  was  through  them  that  the  Welsh  imagination  exer- 
cised its  influence  upon  the  Continent,  that  it  transformed,  in 
the  twelfth  century,  the  poetic  art  of  Europe,  and  realized  this 
miracle — that  the  creations  of  a  half -conquered  race  have  be- 
come the  universal  feast  of  imagination  for  mankind. 

Few  heroes  owe  less  to  reality  than  Arthur.  Neither  Gildas 
nor  Aneurin,  his  contemporaries,  speak  of  him ;  Bede  did  not 
even  know  his  name ;  Taliessin  and  Liwarc'h  Hen  gave  him  only 
a  secondary  place.  In  Nennius,  on  the  other  hand,  who  lived 
about  850,  the  legend  has  fully  unfolded.  Arthur  is  already 
the  exterminator  of  the  Saxons ;  he  has  never  experienced  de- 
feat ;  he  is  the  suzerain  of  an  army  of  kings.  Finally,  in  Geof- 
frey of  Monmouth,  the  epic  creation  culminates.  Arthur 
reigns  over  the  whole  earth;  he  conquers  Ireland,  Norway, 
Gascony,  and  France.  At  Caerleon  he  holds  a  tournament  at 
which  all  the  monarchs  of  the  world  are  present ;  there  he  puts 
upon  his  head  thirty  crowns,  and  exacts  recognition  as  the  sov- 
ereign lord  of  the  universe.  So  incredible  is  it  that  a  petty  king 
of  the  sixth  century,  scarcely  remarked  by  his  contemporaries, 
should  have  taken  in  posterity  such  colossal  proportions,  that 
several  critics  have  supposed  that  the  legendary  Arthur  and  the 
obscure  chieftain  who  bore  that  name  have  nothing  in  common, 
the  one  with  the  other,  and  that  the  son  of  Uther  Pendragon 
is  a  wholly  ideal  hero,  a  survivor  of  the  old  Cymric  mythology. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  the  symbols  of  Neo-Druidism — that  is 

w  Since  the  first  publication  of  these  icately    appreciating    questions    of    this 

views,  on  which  I  should  not  like  more  kind,    relative   to   tne    genius   of   races, 

emphasis  to  be  put  than   what   belongs  It    frequently    happens    that    the    resur- 

to  a  passing  impression,  similar  consid-  rection  of  an  old  national  genius  takes 

erations  have  been  developed,  in  terms  place  under  a  very  different  form  from 

tfiat  appear  a  little  too  positive,   by  M.  that    which    one    would    have    expected, 

H.   Martin   ("  History  of    France,"   vol.  and  by  means  of  individuals  who  have 

vi.,    1856).     The   objections   raised   to   it  no     idea     of    the    ethnographical    part 

are,  for  the  most  part,  due  to  the  fact  which  they  play, 
that  very  few  people  are  capable  of  del- 


430  RENAN 

to  say,  of  that  secret  doctrine,  the  outcome  of  Druidism,  which 
prolonged  its  existence  even  to  the  Middle  Ages  under  the  form 
of  Freemasonry — we  again  find  Arthur  transformed  into  a 
divine  personage,  and  playing  a  purely  mythological  part.  It 
must  at  least  be  allowed  that,  if  behind  the  fable  some  reality 
lies  hidden,  history  offers  us  no  means  of  attaining  it.  It  can- 
not be  doubted  that  the  discovery  of  Arthur's  tomb  in  the  Isle 
of  Avalon  in  1189  was  an  invention  of  Norman  policy,  just  as 
in  1283,  the  very  year  in  which  Edward  I  was  engaged  in 
crushing  out  the  last  vestiges  of  Welsh  independence,  Arthur's 
crown  was  very  conveniently  found,  and  forthwith  united  to 
the  other  crown  jewels  of  England. 

We  naturally  expect  Arthur,  now  become  the  representative 
of  Welsh  nationality,  to  sustain  in  the  Mabinogion  a  character 
analogous  to  this  role,  and  therein,  as  in  Nennius,  to  serve  the 
hatred  of  the  vanquished  against  the  Saxons.  But  such  is  not 
the  case.  Arthur,  in  the  Mabinogion,  exhibits  no  characteristics 
of  patriotic  resistance ;  his  part  is  limited  to  uniting  heroes 
around  him,  to  maintaining  the  retainers  of  his  palace,  and  to 
enforcing  the  laws  of  his  order  of  chivalry.  He  is  too  strong 
for  anyone  to  dream  of  attacking  him.  He  is  the  Charlemagne 
of  the  Carlovingian  romances,  the  Agamemnon  of  Homer — one 
of  those  neutral  personalities  that  serve  but  to  give  unity  to  the 
poem.  The  idea  of  warfare  against  the  alien,  hatred  towards 
the  Saxon,  does  not  appear  in  a  single  instance.  The  heroes  of 
the  Mabinogion  have  no  fatherland;  each  fights  to  show  his 
personal  excellence,  and  satisfy  his  taste  for  adventure,  but 
not  to  defend  a  national  cause.  Britain  is  the  universe ;  no  one 
suspects  that  beyond  the  Cymry  there  may  be  other  nations  and 
other  races. 

It  was  by  this  ideal  and  representative  character  that  the  Ar- 
thurian legend  had  such  an  astonishing  prestige  throughout 
the  whole  world.  Had  Arthur  been  only  a  provincial  hero,  the 
more  or  less  happy  defender  of  a  little  country,  all  peoples  would 
not  have  adopted  him,  any  more  than  they  have  adopted  the 
Marco  of  the  Serbs,  or  the  Robin  Hood  of  the  Saxons.  The 
Arthur  who  has  charmed  the  world  is  the  head  of  an  order  of 
equality,  in  which  all  sit  at  the  same  table,  in  which  a  man's 
worth  depends  upon  his  valor  and  his  natural  gifts.  What  mat- 
tered to  the  world  the  fate  of  an  unknown  peninsula,  and  the 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  431 

strife  waged  on  its  behalf?  What  enchanted  it  was  the  ideal 
court  presided  over  by  Gwenhwyvar  (Guinevere),  where 
around  the  monarchical  unity  the  flower  of  heroes  was  gathered 
together,  where  ladies,  as  chaste  as  they  were  beautiful,  loved 
according  to  the  laws  of  chivalry,  and  where  the  time  was  passed 
in  listening  to  stories,  and  learning  civility  and  beautiful  man- 
ners. 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  magic  of  that  Round  Table,  about 
which  the  Middle  Ages  grouped  all  their  ideas  of  heroism,  of 
beauty,  of  modesty,  and  of  love.  We  need  not  stop  to  inquire 
whether  the  ideal  of  a  gentle  and  polished  society  in  the  midst 
of  the  barbarian  world  is,  in  all  its  features,  a  purely  Breton 
creation,  whether  the  spirit  of  the  courts  of  the  Continent  has 
not  in  some  measure  furnished  the  model,  and  whether  the 
Mabinogion  themselves  have  not  felt  the  reaction  of  the  French 
imitations ;  "  it  suffices  for  us  that  the  new  order  of  sentiments 
which  we  have  just  indicated  was,  throughout  the  whole  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  persistently  attached  to  the  groundwork  of  the 
Cymric  romances.  Such  an  association  could  not  be  fortuitous ; 
if  the  imitations  are  all  so  glaring  in  color,  it  is  evidently  be- 
cause in  the  original  this  same  color  is  to  be  found  united  to 
particularly  strong  character.  How  otherwise  shall  we  ex- 
plain why  a  forgotten  tribe  on  the  very  confines  of  the  world 
should  have  imposed  its  heroes  upon  Europe,  and,  in  the  domain 
of  imagination,  accomplished  one  of  the  most  singular  revolu- 
tions known  to  the  historian  of  letters? 

If,  in  fact,  one  compares  European  literature  before  the  in- 
troduction of  the  Cymric  romances  with  what  it  became  when 
the  trouvhes  set  themselves  to  draw  from  Breton  sources,  one 
recognizes  readily  that  with  the  Breton  narratives  a  new  ele- 
ment entered  into  the  poetic  conception  of  the  Christian  peoples, 
and  modified  it  profoundly.  The  Carlovingian  poem,  both  by 
its  structure  and  by  the  means  which  it  employs,  does  not  depart 
from  classical  ideas.  The  motives  of  man's  action  are  the  same 
as  in  the  Greek  epic.  The  essentially  romantic  element,  the  life 
of  forests  and  mysterious  adventure,  the  feeling  for  nature, 

"  The  surviving  version  of  the  "  Ma-  ratives   have   been   borrowed   in  a   like 

binogion  "  has  a  later  date  than  these  manner,    since    among    them    are    some 

imitations,   and  the  Red   Book   includes  unknown  to  the  trouv^res,  which  could 

several  tales  borrowed  from  the  French  only  possess  interest  for  Breton  coua- 

trouveres.     But  it  is  out  of  the  question  tries. 
to  maintain  that  the  really  Welsh  aar- 


432  RENAN 

and  that  impulse  of  imagination  which  makes  the  Breton  war-  ] 
rior  unceasingly  pursue.the  unknown — nothing  of  all  this  is  as 
yet  to  be  observed.  Roland  differs  from  the  heroes  of  Homer 
only  by  his  armor ;  in  heart  he  is  the  brother  of  Ajax  or  Achilles. 
Percev.al,  on  the  contrary,  belongs  to  another  world,  separated 
by  a  great  gulf  from  that  in  which  the  heroes  of  antiquity  live 
and  act. 

It  was  above  all  by  the  creation  of  woman's  character,  by 
introducing  into  mediaeval  poetry,  hitherto  hard  and  austere, 
the  nuances  of  love,  that  the  Breton  romances  brought  about 
this  curious  metamorphosis.  It  was  like  an  electric  spark; 
in  a  few  years  European  taste  was  changed.  Nearly  all  the 
types  of  womankind  known  to  the  Middle  Ages,  Guinevere, 
Iseult,  Enid,  are  derived  from  Arthur's  court.  In  the  Car- 
lovingian  poems  woman  is  a  nonentity  without  character  or 
individuality ;  in  them  love  is  either  brutal,  as  in  the  romance 
of  "  Ferebras,"  or  scarcely  indicated,  as  in  the  "  Song  of  Ro- 
land." In  the  Mahinogion,  on  the  other  hand,  the  principal  part 
always  belongs  to  the  women.  Chivalrous  gallantry,  which 
makes  the  warrior's  happiness  to  consist  in  serving  a  woman 
and  meriting  her  esteem,  the  belief  that  the  noblest  use  of 
strength  is  to  succor  and  avenge  weakness,  results,  I  know,  from 
a  turn  of  imagination  which  possessed  nearly  all  European  peo- 
ples in  the  twelfth  century ;  but  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  this 
turn  of  imagination  first  found  literary  expression  among  the 
Breton  peoples.  One  of  the  most  surprising  features  in  the 
Mabinogion  is  the  delicacy  of  the  feminine  feeling  breathed  in 
them ;  an  impropriety  or  a  gross  word  is  never  to  be  met  with. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  quote  at  length  the  two  romances  of 
"  Peredur  "  and  "Geraint  "  to  demonstrate  an  innocence  such  as 
this ;  but  the  naive  simplicity  of  these  charming  compositions 
forbids  us  to  see  in  this  innocence  any  underlying  meaning. 
The  zeal  of  the  knight  in  the  defence  of  ladies'  honor  became  a 
satirical  euphemism  only  in  the  French  imitators,  who  trans- 
formed the  virginal  modesty  of  the  Breton  romances  into  a 
shameless  gallantry — so  far  indeed  that  these  compositions, 
chaste  as  they  are  in  the  original,  became  the  scandal  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  provoked  censures,  and  were  the  occasion  of  the 
ideas  of  immorality  which,  for  religious  people,  still  cluster 
about  the  name  of  romance. 


THE   POETRY  OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  433 

Certainly  chivalry  is  too  complex  a  fact  for  us  to  be  per- 
mitted to  assign  it  to  any  single  origin.  Let  us  say  however 
that  in  the  idea  of  envisaging  the  esteem  of  a  woman  as  the 
highest  object  of  human  activity,  and  setting  up  love  as  the 
supreme  principle  of  morality,  there  is  nothing  of  the  antique 
spirit,  or  indeed  of  the  Teutonic.  Is  it  in  the  "  Edda  "  or  in  the 
"  Niebelungen  "  that  we  shall  find  the  germ  of  this  spirit  of  pure 
love,  of  exalted  devotion,  which  forms  the  very  soul  of  chivalry  ? 
As  to  following  the  suggestion  of  some  critics  and  seeking 
among  the  Arabs  for  the  beginnings  of  this  institution,  surely 
of  all  literary  paradoxes  ever  mooted,  this  is  one  of  the  most 
singular.  The  idea  of  conquering  woman  in  a  land  where  she 
is  bought  and  sold,  of  seeking  her  esteem  in  a  land  where  she 
is  scarcely  considered  capable  of  moral  merit !  I  shall  oppose 
the  partisans  of  this  hypothesis  with  one  single  fact — the  sur- 
prise experienced  by  the  Arabs  of  Algeria  when,  by  a  some- 
what unfortunate  recollection  of  mediaeval  tournaments,  the 
ladies  were  intrusted  with  the  presentation  of  prizes  at  the 
Beiram  races.  What  to  the  knight  appeared  an  unparalleled 
honor  seemed  to  the  Arabs  a  humiliation  and  almost  an  insult. 

The  introduction  of  the  Breton  romances  into  the  current 
of  European  literature  worked  a  not  less  profound  revolution 
in  the  manner  of  conceiving  and  employing  the  marvellous.  In 
the  Carlovingian  poems  the  marvellous  is  timid,  and  conforms 
to  the  Christian  faith ;  the  supernatural  is  produced  directly  by 
God  or  his  envoys.  Among  the  Cymry,  on  the  contrary,  the 
principle  of  the  marvel  is  in  nature  herself,  in  her  hidden  forces, 
in  her  inexhaustible  fecundity.  There  is  a  mysterious  swan,  a 
prophetic  bird,  a  suddenly  appearing  hand,  a  giant,  a  black 
tyrant,  a  magic  mist,  a  dragon,  a  cry  that  causes  the  hearer  to 
die  of  terror,  an  object  with  extraordinary  properties.  There  is 
no  trace  of  the  monotheistic  conception,  in  which  the  marvellous 
is  only  a  miracle,  a  derogation  of  eternal  laws.  Nor  are  there 
any  of  those  personifications  of  the  life  of  nature  which  form 
the  essential  part  of  the  Greek  and  Indian  mythologies.  Here 
we  have  perfect  naturalism,  an  unlimited  faith  in  the  possible, 
belief  in  the  existence  of  independent  beings  bearing  within 
themselves  the  principle  of  their  strength — an  idea  quite  op- 
posed to  Christianity,  which  in  such  beings  necessarily  sees 
either  angels  or  fiends.     And  besides,  these  strange  beings  are 


434 


RENAN 


always  presented  as  being  outside  the  pale  of  the  Church ;  and 
when  the  knight  of  the  Round  Table  has  conquered  them  he 
forces  them  to  go  and  pay  homage  to  Guinevere,  and  have  them- 
selves baptized. 

Now,  if  in  poetry  there  is  a  marvellous  element  that  we  might 
accept,  surely  it  is  this.  Classical  mythology,  taken  in  its  first 
simplicity,  is  too  bold,  taken  as  a  mere  figure  of  rhetoric,  too 
insipid,  to  give  us  satisfaction.  As  to  the  marvellous  element 
in  Christianity,  Boileau  is  right :  no  fiction  is  compatible  with 
such  a  dogmatism.  There  remains  then  the  purely  naturalistic 
marvellous,  nature  interesting  herself  in  action  and  acting  her- 
self, the  great  mystery  of  fatality  unveiling  itself  by  the  secret 
conspiring  of  all  beings,  as  in  Shakespeare  and  Ariosto.  It 
would  be  curious  to  ascertain  how  much  of  the  Celt  there  is  in 
the  former  of  these  poets ;  as  for  Ariosto  he  is  the  Breton  poet 
par  excellence.  All  his  machinery,  all  his  means  of  interest, 
all  his  fine  shades  of  sentiment,  all  his  types  of  women,  all  his 
adventures,  are  borrowed  from  the  Breton  romances. 

Do  we  now  understand  the  intellectual  role  of  that  little  race 
which  gave  to  the  world  Arthur,  Guinevere,  Lancelot,  Per- 
ceval, Merlin,  St.  Brandan,  St.  Patrick,  and  almost  all  the  poet- 
ical cycles  of  the  Middle  Ages  ?  What  a  striking  destiny  some 
nations  have,  in  alone  possessing  the  right  to  cause  the  accep- 
tance of  their  heroes,  as  though  for  that  were  necessary  a  quite 
peculiar  degree  of  authority,  seriousness,  and  faith !  And  it  is 
a  strange  thing  that  it  is  to  the  Normans,  of  all  peoples  the 
one  least  sympathetically  inclined  towards  the  Bretons,  that 
we  owe  the  renown  of  the  Breton  fables.  Brilliant  and  imita- 
tive, the  Norman  everywhere  became  the  pre-eminent  repre- 
sentative of  the  nation  on  which  he  had  at  first  imposed  himself 
by  force.  French  in  France,  English  in  England,  Italian  in 
Italy,  Russian  at  Novgorod,  he  forgot  his  own  language  to 
speak  that  of  the  race  which  he  had  conquered,  and  to  become 
the  interpreter  of  its  genius.  The  deeply  suggestive  character 
of  the  Welsh  romances  could  not  fail  to  impress  men  so  prompt 
to  seize  and  assimilate  the  ideas  of  the  foreigner.  The  first 
revelation  of  the  Breton  fables,  the  "  Latin  Chronicle  "  of  Geof- 
frey of  Monmouth,  appeared  about  the  year  1137,  under  the 
auspices  of  Robert  of  Gloucester,  natural  son  of  Henry  I. 
Henry  II  acquired  a  taste  for  the  same  narratives,  and  at  his 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  435 

request  Robert  Wace,  in  1155,  wrote  in  French  the  first  history 
of  Arthur,  thus  opening  the  path  in  which  walked  after  him  a 
host  of  poets  or  imitators  of  all  nationalities,  French,  Provencal, 
Italian,  Spanish,  English,  Scandinavian,  Greek,  and  Georgian. 
We  need  not  belittle  the  glory  of  the  first  tronveres  who  put 
into  a  language,  then  read  and  understood  from  one  end  of 
Europe  to  the  other,  fictions  which,  but  for  them,  would  have 
doubtless  remained  forever  unknown.  It  is  however  difficult 
to  attribute  to  them  an  inventive  faculty,  such  as  would  permit 
them  to  merit  the  title  of  creators.  The  numerous  passages 
in  which  one  feels  that  they  do  not  fully  understand  the  original 
which  they  imitate,  and  in  which  they  attempt  to  give  a  natural 
significance  to  circumstances  of  which  the  mythological  bearing 
escaped  them,  suffice  to  prove  that,  as  a  rule,  they  were  satisfied 
to  make  a  fairly  faithful  copy  of  the  work  before  their  eyes. 

What  part  has  Armorican  Brittany  played  in  the  creation  or 
propagation  of  the  legends  of  the  Round  Table?  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  with  any  degree  of  precision ;  and  in  truth  such  a 
question  becomes  a  matter  of  secondary  import,  once  we  form 
a  just  idea  of  the  close  bonds  of  fraternity  which  did  not  cease 
until  the  twelfth  century  to  unite  the  two  branches  of  the  Breton 
peoples.  That  the  heroic  traditions  of  Wales  long  continued  to 
live  in  the  branch  of  the  Cymric  family  which  came  and  settled 
in  Armorica  cannot  be  doubted  when  we  find  Geraint,  Urien, 
and  other  heroes  become  saints  in  Lower  Brittany ;  ^^  and  above 
all  when  we  see  one  of  the  most  essential  episodes  of  the  Ar- 
thurian cycle,  that  of  the  Forest  of  Broceliande,  placed  in  the 
same  country.  A  large  number  of  facts  collected  by  M.  de  la 
Villemarque  ^^  prove,  on  the  other  hand,  that  these  same  tradi- 
tions produced  a  true  poetic  cycle  in  Brittany,  and  even  that  at 
certain  epochs  they  must  have  recrossed  the  Channel,  as  though 
to  give  new  life  to  the  mother  country's  memories.  The  fact 
that  Gauthier  Calenius,  Archdeacon  of  Oxford,  brought  back 
from  Brittany  to  England  (about  1125)  the  very  text  of  the 

"I  shall  only  cite  a  single  proof;    it  et    les    contes    des    anciens    Bretons'* 

is    a    law    of    Edward    the    Confessor:  (Paris,    1859),    pp.    20   et    seq.      In    the 

*'  Britones   vero   Armorici   quum    vene-  "  Contes    populaires    des    anciens    Bre- 

tint  in  regtio  isto,  suscipi  debent   et  in  tons,"  of  which  the  above  may  be  con- 

regno  protegi  sicut  probi  cives  de  cor-  sidered    as   a   new    edition,    the    learned 

pore    regni    nujus;     exierunt    quondam  author   had    somewhat    exaggerated    the 

de    sanguine    Britonum   regni    hujus." —  influence   of    French    Brittany.      In    the 

Wilkins,    "  Leges    Anglo-Saxonicae,"    p.  present  article,   when   first   published,   I 

3d6.  had,  on  the  other  hand,  depreciated  it 

** "  I<es   Romans  de  la  Table-Ronde  too  much. 


436  RENAN 

legends  which  were  translated  into  Latin  ten  years  afterwards 
by  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  is  here  decisive.  I  know  that  to 
readers  of  the  Mabinogion  such  an  opinion  will  appear  sur- 
prising at  a  first  glance.  All  is  Welsh  in  these  fables,  the  places, 
the  genealogies,  the  customs ;  in  them  Armorica  is  only  repre- 
sented by  Hoel,  an  important  personage  no  doubt,  but  one  who 
has  not  achieved  the  fame  of  the  other  heroes  of  Arthur's  court. 
Again,  if  Armorica  saw  the  birth  of  the  Arthurian  cycle,  how 
is  it  that  we  fail  to  find  there  any  traces  of  that  brilliant  na- 
tivity ?  " 

These  objections,  I  avow,  long  barred  my  way,  but  I  no 
longer  find  them  insoluble.  And  first  of  all  there  is  a  class  of 
Mabinogion,  including  those  of  Owen,  Geraint,  and  Peredur, 
stories  which  possess  no  very  precise  geographical  localization. 
In  the  second  place,  national  written  literature  being  less  suc- 
cessfully defended  in  Brittany  than  in  Wales  against  the  inva- 
sion of  foreign  culture,  it  may  be  conceived  that  the  memory  of 
the  old  epics  should  be  there  more  obliterated.  The  literary 
share  of  the  two  countries  thus  remains  sufficiently  distinct. 
The  glory  of  French  Brittany  is  in  her  popular  songs ;  but  it 
is  only  in  Wales  that  the  genius  of  the  Breton  people  has  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  itself  in  authentic  books  and  achieved 
creations. 


IV 

In  comparing  the  Breton  cycle  as  the  French  trouvhes  knew 
it,  and  the  same  cycle  as  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  text  of  the 
Mabinogion,  one  might  be  tempted  to  believe  that  the  European 
imagination,  enthralled  by  these  brilliant  fables,  added  to  them 
some  poetical  themes  unknown  to  the  Welsh.  Two  of  the  most 
celebrated  heroes  of  the  Continental  Breton  romances,  Lancelot 
and  Tristan,  do  not  figure  in  the  Mabinogion;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  characteristics  of  the  Holy  Grail  are  presented  in  a 
totally  different  way  from  that  which  we  find  in  the  French  and 
German  poets.  A  more  attentive  study  shows  that  these  ele- 
ments, apparently  added  by  the  French  poets,  are  in  reality  of 

**  M.  dc  la  Villemarqu^  makes  appeal  laires  de   la   HrctaRne  "  two  poems  are 

to  the  popular  BoriRS  still  extant  in  Brit-  to  be  found  in  which  that  hero's  namt 

tany,  in  which  Arthur's  deeds  are  cele-  figures. 
Ijratcd.     In  fact,  in  his  "  Chants  popu- 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  CELTIC   RACES  437 

Cymric  origin.  And  first  of  all,  M.  de  la  Villemarque  has 
demonstrated  to  perfection  that  the  name  of  Lancelot  is  only  a 
translation  of  that  of  the  Welsh  hero  Mael,  who  in  point  of  fact 
exhibits  the  fullest  analogy  with  the  Lancelot  of  the  French 
romances. ^"^  The  context,  the  proper  names,  all  the  details  of 
the  romance  of  Lancelot  also  present  the  most  pronounced 
Breton  aspect.  As  much  must  be  said  of  the  romance  of  Tris- 
tan. It  is  even  to  be  hoped  that  this  curious  legend  will  be 
discovered  complete  in  some  Welsh  manuscript.  Dr.  Owen 
states  that  he  has  seen  one  of  which  he  was  unable  to  obtain  a 
copy.  As  to  i-.e  Holy  Grail,  it  must  be  avowed  that  the  mystic 
cup,  the  object  after  which  the  French  Parceval  and  the  Ger- 
man Parsifal  go  in  search,  has  not  nearly  the  same  importance 
among  the  Welsh.  In  the  romance  of  "  Peredur  "  it  only 
figures  in  an  episodical  fashion,  and  without  a  well-defined  re- 
ligious intention. 

"  Then  Peredur  and  his  uncle  discoursed  together,  and  he 
beheld  two  youths  enter  the  hall,  and  proceed  up  to  the  chamber, 
bearing  a  spear  of  mighty  size,  with  three  streams  of  blood 
flowing  from  the  point  to  the  ground.  And  when  all  the  com- 
pany saw  this,  they  began  wailing  and  lamenting.  But  for  all 
that,  the  man  did  not  break  off  his  discourse  with  Peredur. 
And  as  he  did  not  tell  Peredur  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw,  he 
forbore  to  ask  him  concerning  it.  And  when  the  clamor  had 
a  little  subsided,  behold  two  maidens  entered,  with  a  large  salver 
between  them,  in  which  was  a  man's  head,  surrounded  by  a  pro- 
fusion of  blood.  And  thereupon  the  company  of  the  court  made 
so  great  an  outcry,  that  it  was  irksome  to  be  in  the  same  hall  with 
them.  But  at  length  they  were  silent."  This  strange  and 
wondrous  circumstance  remains  an  enigma  to  the  end  of  the 
narrative.  Then  a  mysterious  young  man  appears  to  Peredur, 
apprises  him  that  the  lance  from  which  the  blood  was  dropping 
is  that  with  which  his  uncle  was  wounded,  that  the  vessel  con- 
tains the  blood  and  the  head  of  one  of  his  cousins,  slain  by  the 
witches  of  Kerloiou,  and  that  it  is  predestined  that  he,  Peredur, 
should  be  their  avenger.     In  point  of  fact,  Peredur  goes  and 

*"  Ancelot  is  the  diminutive  of  Ancel,  borne  by  some  Welshmen  in  the  French 
and    means    servant,    page,    or    esquire.  service    in    the   early   part   of   the   four- 
To  this  day  in  the  Cymric  dialects  Mael  teenth  century,  is  also  no  doubt  a  trans- 
has    the    same    signification.      The    sur-  lation  of  Mael. 
name    of    Poursisant,    which    we    find 


438  RENAN 

convokes  the  Round  Table ;  Arthur  and  his  knights  come  and 
put  the  witches  of  Kerloiou  to  death. 

If  we  now  pass  to  the  French  romance  of  "  Parceval,"  we 
find  that  all  this  phantasmagoria  clothes  a  very  different  sig- 
nificance. The  lance  is  that  with  which  Longus  pierced  Christ's 
side,  the  Grail  or  basin  is  that  in  which  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
caught  the  divine  blood.  This  miraculous  vase  procures  all 
the  good  things  of  heaven  and  earth;  it  heals  wounds,  and  is 
filled  at  the  owner's  pleasure  with  the  most  exquisite  food.  To 
approach  it  one  must  be  in  a  state  of  grace ;  only  a  priest  can  tell 
of  its  marvels.  To  find  these  sacred  relics  after  the  passage 
of  a  thousand  trials — such  is  the  object  of  Peredur's  chivalry, 
at  once  worldly  and  mystical.  In  the  end  he  becomes  a  priest ; 
he  takes  the  Grail  and  the  lance  into  his  hermitage ;  on  the  day 
of  his  death  an  angel  bears  them  up  to  Heaven.  Let  us  add 
that  many  traits  prove  that  in  the  mind  of  the  French  trouvere 
the  Grail  is  confounded  with  the  eucharist.  In  the  miniatures 
which  occasionally  accompany  the  romance  of  "  Parceval,"  the 
Grail  is  in  the  form  of  a  pyx,  appearing  at  all  the  solemn  mo- 
ments of  the  poem  as  a  miraculous  source  of  succor. 

Is  this  strange  myth,  differing  as  it  does  from  the  simple 
narrative  presented  in  the  Welsh  legend  of  Peredur,  really 
Cymric,  or  ought  we  rather  to  see  in  it  an  original  creation  of 
the  trouvcres,  based  upon  a  Breton  foundation?  With  M.  de 
la  Villemarque  ^^  we  believe  that  this  curious  fable  is  essentially 
Cymric.  In  the  eighth  century  a  Breton  hermit  had  a  vision 
of  Joseph  of  Arimathea  bearing  the  chalice  of  the  Last  Supper, 
and  wrote  the  history  called  the  "  Gradal."  The  whole  Celtic 
mythology  is  full  of  the  marvels  of  a  magic  caldron  under  which 
nine  fairies  blow  silently,  a  mysterious  vase  which  inspires 
poetic  genius,  gives  wisdom,  reveals  the  future,  and  unveils  the 
secrets  of  the  world.  One  day  as  Bran  the  Blessed  was  hunting 
in  Ireland  upon  the  shore  of  a  lake,  he  saw  come  forth  from  it 
a  black  man  bearing  upon  his  back  an  enormous  caldron,  fol- 
lowed by  a  witch  and  a  dwarf.  This  caldron  was  the  instru- 
ment of  the  supernatural  power  of  a  family  of  giants.  It  cured 
all  ills,  and  gave  back  life  to  the  dead,  but  without  restoring  to 
them  the  use  of  speech — an  allusion  to  the  secret  of  the  bardic 

'•  See  the  excellent  discussion  of  this        to  "  Contes  populaircs  des  anciens  Bre- 
interesting  problem  in  the  introduction        tons  "   (pp.   i8i  et  scq). 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  439 

initiation.  In  the  same  way  Perceval's  wariness  forms  the 
whole  plot  of  the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail.  The  Grail  thus  ap- 
pears to  us  in  its  primitive  meaning  as  the  pass-word  of  a  kind 
of  freemasonry  which  survived  in  Wales  long  after  the  preach- 
ing of  the  Gospel,  and  of  which  we  find  deep  traces  in  the  legend 
of  Taliessin.  Christianity  grafted  its  legend  upon  the  mytho- 
logical data,  and  a  like  transformation  was  doubtless  made  by 
the  Cymric  race  itself.  If  the  Welsh  narrative  of  Peredur  does 
not  offer  the  same  developments  as  the  French  romance  of 
*'  Parceval,"  it  is  because  the  "  Red  Book  of  Hergest "  gives 
us  an  earlier  version  than  that  which  served  as  a  model  for 
Chretien  de  Troyes.  It  is  also  to  be  remarked  that,  even  in 
*'  Parceval,"  the  mystical  idea  is  not  as  yet  completely  developed, 
that  the  trouvdre  seems  to  treat  this  strange  theme  as  a  narrative 
which  he  has  found  already  complete,  and  the  meaning  of  which 
he  can  scarcely  guess.  The  motive  that  sets  Parceval  a-field 
in  the  French  romance,  as  well  as  in  the  Welsh  version,  is  a 
family  motive;  he  seeks  the  Holy  Grail  as  a  talisman  to  cure 
his  uncle  the  Fisherman-King,  in  such  a  way  that  the  religious 
idea  is  still  subordinated  to  the  profane  intention.  In  the  Ger- 
man version,  on  the  other  hand,  full  as  it  is  of  mysticism  and 
theology,  the  Grail  has  a  temple  and  priests.  Parsifal,  who 
has  become  a  purely  ecclesiastical  hero,  reaches  the  dignity  of 
King  of  the  Grail  by  his  religious  enthusiasm  and  his  chastity.^' 
Finally,  the  prose  versions,  more  modern  still,  sharply  distin- 
guish the  two  chivalries,  the  one  earthly,  the  other  mystical. 
In  them  Parceval  becomes  the  model  of  the  devout  knight. 
This  was  the  last  of  the  metamorphoses  which  that  all-powerful 
enchantress  called  the  human  imagination  made  him  undergo; 
and  it  was  only  right  that,  after  having  gone  through  so  many 
dangers,  he  should  don  a  monkish  frock,  wherein  to  take  his 
rest  after  his  life  of  adventure. 


V 
When  we  seek  to  determine  the  precise  moment  in  the  history 
of  the  Celtic  races  at  which  we  ought  to  place  ourselves  in  order 

"  It  is  indeed  remarkable  that  all  the  and  a  martyr  for  her  chastity,  her  fes- 

Breton   heroes  in  their  last  transforma-  tival    being    celebrated    on    August    1st. 

tion    are    at    once    gallant    and    devout.  She  it  is  who  figures  in  the  French  ro- 

One    <if    the    most    celebrated    ladies    of  mances  under  the  name  of  Lunette.    Se« 

Arthur's  court,  Luned,  becomes  a  saint  Lady  Guest,  voL  i.  pp.  ii3i  ii4- 


44° 


RENAN 


to  appreciate  their  genius  in  its  entirety,  we  find  ourselves  led 
back  to  the  sixth  century  of  our  era.  Races  have  nearly  always 
a  predestined  hour  at  which,  passing  from  simplicity  to  reflec- 
tion, they  bring  forth  to  the  light  of  day,  for  the  first  time,  all 
the  treasures  of  their  nature.  For  the  Celtic  races  the  poetic 
moment  of  awakening  and  primal  activity  was  the  sixth  century. 
Christianity,  still  young  amongst  them,  has  not  completely 
stifled  the  national  cult ;  the  religion  of  the  Druids  defends  it- 
self in  its  schools  and  holy  places ;  warfare  against  the  foreigner, 
without  which  a  people  never  achieves  a  full  consciousness  of 
itself,  attains  its  highest  degree  of  spirit.  It  is  the  epoch  of  all 
the  heroes  of  enduring  fame,  of  all  the  characteristic  saints  of 
the  Breton  Church ;  finally,  it  is  the  great  age  of  bardic  litera- 
ture, illustrious  by  the  names  of  Taliessin,  of  Aneurin,  of 
Liwarc'h  Hen. 

To  such  as  would  view  critically  the  historical  use  of  these 
half-fabulous  names,  and  would  hesitate  to  accept  as  authentic, 
poems  that  have  come  down  to  us  through  so  long  a  series  of 
ages,  we  reply  that  the  objections  raised  to  the  antiquity  of  the 
bardic  literature — objections  of  which  W.  Schlegel  made  him- 
self the  interpreter  in  opposition  to  M.  Fauriel — have  completely 
disappeared  under  the  investigations  of  an  enlightened  and  im- 
partial criticism.*^  By  a  rare  exception  sceptical  opinion  has 
for  once  been  found  in  the  wrong.  The  sixth  century  is  in 
fact  for  the  Breton  peoples  a  perfectly  historical  century.  We 
touch  this  epoch  of  their  history  as  closely  and  with  as  much 
certainty  as  Greek  or  Roman  antiquity.  It  is  indeed  know"n 
that,  up  to  a  somewhat  late  period,  the  bards  continued  to  com- 
pose pieces  under  the  names — which  had  become  popular — of 
Aneurin,  Taliessin,  and  Liwarc'h  Hen ;  but  no  confusion  can 
be  made  between  these  insipid  rhetorical  exercises  and  the 
really  ancient  fragments  which  bear  the  names  of  the  poets 
cited — fragments  full  of  personal  traits,  local  circumstances, 
and  individual  passions  and  feelings. 

Such  is  the  literature  of  which  M.  de  la  Villemarque  has  at- 
tempted to  unite  the  most  ancient  and  authentic  monuments  in 

"This    evidently    does    not    apply    to  ure  as   they  copied   them;    and   that   a 

the  languaRc  of  the  poems  in  question.  manuscript    in   the   vulgar   tongue,    as   a 

It  is  well  known  that  medixval  scrihes,  rule,  only   attests   the  language  of  bia 

alien  as  they  were  to  all  ideas  of  archx-  who  transcribed   it. 
ology,   modernized   the   text*,    in    mcas- 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  441 

his  "  Breton  Bards  of  the  Sixth  Century."  Wales  has  recog- 
nized the  service  that  our  learned  compatriot  has  thus  rendered 
to  Celtic  studies.  We  confess,  however,  to  much  preferring 
to  the  "  Bards  "  the  "  Popular  Songs  of  Brittany."  It  is  in  the 
latter  that  M.  de  la  Villemarque  has  best  served  Celtic  studies, 
by  revealing  to  us  a  delightful  literature,  in  which,  more  clearly 
than  anywhere  else,  are  apparent  these  features  of  gentleness, 
fidelity,  resignation,  and  timid  reserve  which  form  the  character 
of  the  Breton  peoples.^'-* 

The  theme  of  the  poetry  of  the  bards  of  the  sixth  century  is 
simple  and  exclusively  heroic ;  it  ever  deals  with  the  great 
motives  of  patriotism  and  glory.  There  is  a  total  absence  of 
all  tender  feeling,  no  trace  of  love,  no  well-marked  religious 
idea,  but  only  a  vague  and  naturalistic  mysticism — a  survival 
of  Druidic  teaching — and  a  moral  philosophy  wholly  expressed 
in  Triads,  similar  to  that  taught  in  the  half-bardic,  half-Chris- 
tian schools  of  St.  Cadoc  and  St.  Iltud.  The  singularly  artifi- 
cial and  highly  wrought  form  of  the  style  suggests  the  existence 
of  a  system  of  learned  instruction  possessing  long  traditions. 
A  more  pronounced  shade,  and  there  would  be  a  danger  of 
falling  into  a  pedantic  and  mannered  rhetoric.  The  bardic 
literature,  by  its  lengthened  existence  through  the  whole  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  did  not  escape  this  danger.  It  ended  by  being 
no  more  than  a  somewhat  insipid  collection  of  unoriginalities 
in  style,  and  conventional  metaphors.^*^ 

The  opposition  between  bardism  and  Christianity  reveals  it- 
self in  the  pieces  translated  by  M.  de  la  Villemarque  by  many 
features  of  original  and  pathetic  interest.     The  strife  which  rent 

I'This     interesting     collection     ought  two    forms   of   tradition   to    be   fully   ia 

not,     iiowever,     to     be    accepted     unre-  accord    with    one    another.      M.    de    la 

servedly;     and   the   absolute    confidence  Villemarque   is   also   too   ready   to   sup- 

with   which   it   has   been   quoted   is   not  pose  that  the  people  repeats  for  centu- 

without     its     inconveniences.      We     be-  ries  songs  that  it  only  half  understands. 

lieve   that  when    M.   de   la   Villemarqu^  When  a   song   ceases   to   be   intelligible 

comments  on   the   fragments   which,   to  it  is  nearly  always  altered  by  the  peo- 

his  eternal  honor,  he  has  been  the  first  pie,   with   the   end   of   approximating   it 

to    bring   to    light,    his    criticism    is   far  to   the    sounds   familiar    and    significant 

from   being   proof  against   all   reproach,  to  their  ears.    Is  it  not  also  to  be  feared 

and   that   several   of  the   historical  allu-  that   in   this   case   the   editor,    in   entire 

sions  which   he  considers  that  he  finds  good    faith,    may   lend    some    slight    in- 

in  them  are  hypotheses  more  ingenious  flection  to  the  text,  so  as  to  find  in  it 

than  solid.     The  past  is  too  great,  and  the  sense  that  he  desires,  or  has  in  his 

has  come  down  to  us  in  too   fragmen-  mind? 

tary    a    manner,    for    such    coincidences  *>  A  Welsh  scl-olar,  Mr.   Stephens,  m 

to  be  probable.     Popular  celebrities  are  his    "  History    of    Cymric    Literature " 

rarely   those    of    history,    and    when    the  (Llandovery,     1849),     has     dernonstrated 

rumors  of  distant  centuries  come  to  us  these    successive    transformations    very 

by  two  channels,  one  popular,  the  other  well, 
historical,  it  is  a  rare  thing  for  tbeso 


442  RENAN 

the  soul  of  the  old  poets,  their  antipathy  to  the  gray  men  of  the 
monastery,  their  sad  and  painful  conversion,  are  to  be  found  in 
their  songs.  The  sweetness  and  tenacity  of  the  Breton  char- 
acter can  alone  explain  how  a  heterodoxy  so  openly  avowed  as 
this  maintained  its  position  in  face  of  the  dominant  Christianity, 
and  how  holy  men,  Kolumkill  for  example,  took  upon  them- 
selves the  defence  of  the  bards  against  the  kings  who  desired 
to  stamp  them  out.  The  strife  was  the  longer  in  its  duration, 
in  that  Christianity  among  the  Celtic  peoples  never  employed 
force  against  rival  religions,  and,  at  the  worst,  left  to  the  van- 
quished the  liberty  of  ill  humor.  Belief  in  prophets,  indestruct- 
ible among  these  peoples,  created,  in  despite  of  faith,  the  Anti- 
Christian  type  of  Merlin,  and  caused  his  acceptance  by  the 
whole  of  Europe.  Gildas  and  the  orthodox  Bretons  were  cease- 
less in  their  thunderings  against  the  prophets,  and  opposed  to 
them  Elias  and  Samuel,  two  bards  who  only  foretold  good ;  even 
in  the  twelfth  century  Giraldus  Cambrensis  saw  a  prophet  in 
the  town  of  Caerleon. 

Thanks  to  this  toleration  bardism  lasted  into  the  heart  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  under  the  form  of  a  secret  doctrine,  with  a  con- 
ventional language,  and  symbols  almost  wholly  borrowed  from 
the  solar  divinity  of  Arthur.  This  may  be  termed  Neo-Druid- 
ism,  a  kind  of  Druidism  subtilized  and  reformed  on  the  model 
of  Christianity,  which  may  be  seen  growing  more  and  more 
obscure  and  mysterious,  until  the  moment  of  its  total  disap- 
pearance. A  curious  fragment  belonging  to  this  school,  the 
dialogue  between  Arthur  and  Eliwlod,  has  transmitted  to  us 
the  latest  sighs  of  this  latest  protestation  of  expiring  naturalism. 
Under  the  form  of  an  eagle  Eliwlod  introduces  the  divinity  to 
the  sentiments  of  resignation,  of  subjection,  and  of  humility, 
with  which  Christianity  combated  pagan  pride.  Hero-worship 
recoils  step  by  step  before  the  great  formula,  which  Christian- 
ity ceases  not  to  repeat  to  the  Celtic  races  to  sever  them  from 
their  memories :  There  is  none  greater  than  God.  Arthur  al- 
lows himself  to  be  persuaded  to  abdicate  from  his  divinity,  and 
ends  by  reciting  the  Pater. 

I  know  of  no  more  curious  spectacle  than  this  revolt  of  the 
manly  sentiments  of  hero-worship  against  the  feminine  feel- 
ing which  flowed  so  largely  into  the  new  faith.  What,  in  fact, 
exasperates  the  old  representatives  of  Celtic  society  are  the  ex- 


THE  POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  443 

elusive  triumph  of  the  pacific  spirit  and  the  men,  clad  in  linen 
and  chanting  psalms,  whose  voice  is  sad,  who  preach  asceticism, 
and  know  the  heroes  no  more.-^  We  know  the  use  that  Ireland 
has  made  of  this  theme,  in  the  dialogues  which  she  loves  to 
imagine  between  the  representatives  of  her  profane  and  reli- 
gious life,  Ossian  and  St.  Patrick. ^^  Ossian  regrets  the  advent- 
ures, the  chase,  the  blast  of  the  horn,  and  the  kings  of  old  time. 
"  If  they  were  here,"  he  says  to  St.  Patrick,  "  thou  shouldst  not 
thus  be  scouring  the  country  with  thy  psalm-singing  flock." 
Patrick  seeks  to  calm  him  by  soft  words,  and  sometimes  carries 
his  condescension  so  far  as  to  listen  to  his  long  histories,  which 
appear  to  interest  the  saint  but  slightly.  "  Thou  has  heard  my 
story,"  says  the  old  bard  in  conclusion ;  "  albeit  my  memory 
groweth  weak,  and  I  am  devoured  with  care,  yet  I  desire  to  con- 
tinue still  to  sing  the  deeds  of  yore,  and  to  live  upon  ancient  glo- 
ries. Now  am  I  stricken  with  years,  my  life  is  frozen  within 
me,  and  all  my  joys  are  fleeting  away.  No  more  can  my  hand 
grasp  the  sword,  nor  mine  arm  hold  the  lance  in  rest.  Among 
priests  my  last  sad  hour  lengthened  out,  and  psalms  take  now  the 
place  of  songs  of  victory."  "  Let  thy  songs  rest,"  says  Patrick, 
"  and  dare  not  to  compare  thy  Finn  to  the  King  of  kings,  whose 
might  knoweth  no  bounds:  bend  thy  knees  before  Him,  and 
know  Him  for  thy  Lord."  I  was  indeed  necessary  to  surrender, 
and  the  legend  relates  how  the  old  bard  ended  his  days  in  the 
cloister,  among  the  priests  whom  he  had  so  often  used  rudely, 
in  the  midst  of  these  chants  that  he  knew  not.  Ossian  was  too 
good  an  Irishman  for  anyone  to  make  up  his  mind  to  damn 
him  utterly.  Merlin  himself  had  to  cede  to  the  new  spell.  He 
was,  it  is  said,  converted  by  St.  Columba ;  and  the  popular 
voice  in  the  ballads  repeats  to  him  unceasingly  this  sweet  and 
touching  appeal :  "  Merlin,  Merlin,  be  converted ;  there  is  no 
divinity  save  that  of  God." 

"  The    antipathy    to    Christianity    at-  The  Virgin  above  all  is  their  great  en- 

tributed    by    the    Armorican    people    to  emy;    she  it  is  who  has  hounded  them 

the  dwarfs  and  korigans  belongs  in  like  forth  from  their  fountains,  and  on  Sat- 

measure  to  traditions  of  the  opposition  urday,  the  day  consecrated  to  her,  who- 

encountered   by   the    Gospel   in    its   be-  soever  beholds  them  combing  their  hair 

ginnings.      The    korigans    in    fact    are,  or   counting  their  treasures   is   sure   to 

for  the  Breton  peasant,  great  princesses  perish.      (Villemarqu6,    *'  Chants    popu- 

who  would  not  accept  Christianity  when  laires."  Introduction.) 

the   apostles    came    to    Brittany.      They  »  s^e    Miss    Brooke's    "  Reliques    of 

hate  the  clergy   and  the  churches,   the  Irish   Poetry,"   Dublin,    1789,   pp.  37  et 

bells  of  which  make  them  take  to  nigbt  seq.,  pp.  75  et  seq. 


444  RENAN 


VI 


We  should  form  an  altogether  inadequate  idea  of  the  physi- 
ognomy of  the  Celtic  races  were  we  not  to  study  them  under 
what  is  perhaps  the  most  singular  aspect  of  their  development 
— that  is  to  say,  their  ecclesiastical  antiquities  and  their  saints. 
Leaving  on  one  side  the  temporary  repulsion  which  Christian 
mildness  had  to  conquer  in  the  classes  of  society  which  saw 
their  influence  diminished  by  the  new  order  of  things,  it  can  be 
truly  said  that  the  gentleness  of  manners  and  the  exquisite 
sensibility  of  the  Celtic  races,  in  conjunction  with  the  absence 
of  «  formerly  existing  religion  of  strong  organization,  predes- 
^ned  them  to  Christianity.  Christianity  in  fact,  addressing  itself 
by  preference  to  the  more  humble  feelings  in  human  nature, 
met  here  with  admirably  prepared  disciples ;  no  race  has  so  deli- 
cately understood  the  charm  of  littleness,  none  has  placed  the 
simple  creature,  the  innocent,  nearer  God.  The  ease  with  which 
the  new  religion  took  possession  of  these  peoples  is  also  remark- 
able. Brittany  and  Ireland  between  them  scarce  count  two  or 
three  martyrs ;  they  are  reduced  to  venerating  as  such  those  of 
their  compatriots  who  were  slain  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  Dan- 
ish invasions.  Here  comes  to  light  the  profound  difference  di- 
viding the  Celtic  from  the  Teutonic  race.  The  Teutons  only 
received  Christianity  tardily  and  in  spite  of  themselves,  by 
scheming  or  by  force,  after  a  sanguinary  resistance,  and  with 
terrible  throes.  Christianity  was  in  fact  on  several  sides  re- 
pugnant to  their  nature ;  and  one  understands  the  regrets  of 
pure  Teutonists  who,  to  this  day,  reproach  the  new  faith  with 
having  corrupted  their  sturdy  ancestors. 

Such  was  not  the  case  with  the  Celtic  peoples ;  that  gentle 
little  race  was  naturally  Christian.  Far  from  changing  them, 
and  taking  away  some  of  their  qualities,  Christianity  finished 
and  perfected  them.  Compare  the  legends  relating  to  the  intro- 
duction of  Christianity  into  the  two  countries,  the  "  Kristni 
Saga  "  for  instance,  and  the  delightful  legends  of  [.ucius  and 
St.  Patrick.  What  a  di (Terence  we  find!  In  Iceland  the  first 
apostles  are  pirates,  converted  by  some  chance,  now  saying 
mass,  now  massacring  their  enemies,  now  resuming  their  former 
profession  of  sea-rovers;    everything  is  done  in  accord  with 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  445 

expediency,  and  without  any  serious  faith.  In  Ireland  and 
Brittany  grace  operates  through  women,  by  I  know  not  what 
charm  of  purity  and  sweetness.  The  revolt  of  the  Teutons  was 
never  effectually  stifled ;  never  did  they  forget  the  forced  bap- 
tisms, and  the  sword-supported  Carlovingian  missionaries,  until 
the  day  when  Teutonism  took  its  revenge,  and  Luther  through 
seven  centuries  gave  answer  to  Witikind.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  Celts  were,  even  in  the  third  century,  perfect  Christians.  To 
the  Teutons  Christianity  was  for  long  nothing  but  a  Roman 
institution,  imposed  from  without.  They  entered  the  Church 
only  to  trouble  it;  and  it  was  not  without  very  great  difficulty 
that  they  succeeded  in  forming  a  national  clergy.  To  the  Celts, 
on  the  contrary,  Christianity  did  not  come  from  Rome;  they 
had  their  native  clergy,  their  own  peculiar  usages,  their  faith 
at  first  hand.  It  cannot,  in  fact,  be  doubted  that  in  apostolic 
times  Christianity  was  preached  in  Brittany;  and  several  his- 
torians, not  without  justification,  have  considered  that  it  was 
borne  there  by  Judaistic  Christians,  or  by  disciples  of  the  school 
of  St.  John.  Everywhere  else  Christianity  found,  as  a  first 
substratum,  Greek  or  Roman  civilization.  Here  it  found  a  vir- 
gin soil  of  a  nature  analogous  to  its  own,  and  naturally  pre- 
pared to  receive  it. 

Few  forms  of  Christianity  have  offered  an  ideal  of  Christian 
perfection  so  pure  as  the  Celtic  Church  of  the  sixth,  seventh, 
and  eighth  centuries.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  has  God  been  better 
worshipped  in  spirit  than  in  those  great  monastic  communities 
of  Hy,  or  of  lona,  of  Bangor,  of  Clonard,  or  of  Lindisfarne. 
One  of  the  most  distinguished  developments  of  Christianity — 
'doubtless  too  distinguished  for  the  popular  and  practical  mission 
which  the  Church  had  to  undertake — Pelagianism,  arose  from 
it.  The  true  and  refined  morality,  the  simplicity,  and  the  wealth 
of  invention  which  give  distinction  to  the  legends  of  the  Breton 
and  Irish  saints,  are  indeed  admirable.  No  race  adopted  Chris- 
tianity with  so  much  originality,  or,  while  subjecting  itself  t© 
the  common  faith,  kept  its  national  characteristics  more  per- 
sistently. In  religion,  as  in  all  else,  the  Bretons  sought  isola- 
tion, and  did  not  willingly  fraternize  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Strong  in  their  moral  superiority,  persuaded  that  they  possessed 
the  veritable  canon  of  faith  and  religion,  having  received  their 
Christianity  from  an  apostolic  and  wholly  primitive  preaching, 


446  RENAN 

they  experienced  no  need  of  feeling  themselves  in  communion 
with  Christian  societies  less  noble  than  their  own.  Thence  arose 
that  long  struggle  of  the  Breton  churches  against  Roman  pre- 
tensions, which  is  so  admirably  narrated  by  M.  Augustin  Thier- 
ry,^^  thence  those  inflexible  characters  of  Columba  and  the 
monks  of  lona,  defending  their  usages  and  institutions  against 
the  whole  Church,  thence  finally  the  false  position  of  the  Celtic 
peoples  in  Catholicism,  when  that  mighty  force,  grown  more 
and  more  aggressive,  had  drawn  them  together  from  all 
quarters,  and  compelled  their  absorption  in  itself.  Having  no 
Catholic  past,  they  found  themselves  unclassed  on  their  entrance 
into  the  great  family,  and  were  never  able  to  succeed  in  creating 
for  themselves  an  archbishopric.  All  their  efforts  and  all  their 
innocent  deceits  to  attribute  that  title  to  the  churches  of  Dol 
and  St.  Davids  were  wrecked  on  the  overwhelming  divergence 
of  their  past ;  their  bishops  had  to  resign  themselves  to  being 
obscure  suffragans  of  Tours  and  Canterbury. 

It  remains  to  be  said  that,  even  in  our  own  days,  the  powerful 
originality  of  Celtic  Christianity  is  far  from  being  effaced.  The 
Bretons  of  France,  although  they  have  felt  the  consequences 
of  the  revolutions  undergone  by  Catholicism  on  the  Continent, 
are,  at  the  present  hour,  one  of  the  populations  in  which  religious 
feeling  has  retained  most  independence.  The  new  devotions 
find  no  favor  with  it ;  the  people  are  faithful  to  the  old  beliefs 
and  the  old  saints ;  the  psalms  of  religion  have  for  them  an  in- 
effable harmony.  In  the  same  way,  Ireland  keeps,  in  her  more 
remote  districts,  quite  unique  forms  of  worship  from  those  of 
the  rest  of  the  world,  to  which  nothing  in  other  parts  of  Chris- 
tendom can  be  compared.  The  influence  of  modern  Catholicism, 
elsewhere  so  destructive  of  national  usages,  has  had  here  a 
wholly  contrary  effect,  the  clergy  having  found  it  incumbent 
on  them  to  seek  a  vantage  ground  against  Protestantism,  in 
attachment  to  local  practices  and  the  customs  of  the  past. 

It  is  the  picture  of  these  Christian  institutions,  quite  distinct 
from  those  of  the  remainder  of  the  West,  of  this  sometimes 
strange  worship,  of  these  legends  of  the  saints  marked  with 
so  distinct  a  seal  of  nationality,  that  lends  an  interest  to  thp 

•»  In  his  "  History  of  the  Conrjiicst."  tails,  which  were  rectified  in  the  edition 

The  ohjpcfinns  raised  by  M.  Varin  and  published     after    the    illustrious    histo* 

some    other    scholars    to    M.    Thierry's  rian's  death, 
narrative  only  affect  some  secondary  de- 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE  CELTIC   RACES  447 

ecclesiastical  antiquities  of  Ireland,  of  Wales,  and  of  Armorican 
Brittany.  No  hagiology  has  remained  more  exclusively  natural 
than  that  of  the  Celtic  peoples;  until  the  twelfth  century  those 
peoples  admitted  very  few  alien  saints  into  their  martyrology. 
None,  too,  includes  so  many  naturalistic  elements.  Celtic  Pa- 
ganism offered  so  little  resistance  to  the  new  religion  that  the 
Church  did  not  hold  itself  constrained  to  put  in  force  against 
it  the  rigor  with  which  elsewhere  it  pursued  the  slightest  traces 
of  mythology.  The  conscientious  essay  by  W.  Rees  on  the 
"  Saints  of  Wales,"  and  that  by  the  Rev.  John  Williams,  an 
extremely  learned  ecclesiastic  of  the  diocese  of  St.  Asaph,  on 
the  "  Ecclesiastical  Antiquities  of  the  Cymry,"  suffice  to  make 
one  understand  the  immense  value  which  a  complete  and  intelli- 
gent history  of  the  Celtic  churches,  before  their  absorption  in 
the  Roman  Church,  would  possess.  To  these  might  be  added 
the  learned  work  of  Dom  Lobineau  on  the  "  Saints  of  Brittany," 
reissued  in  our  days  by  the  Abbe  Tresvaux,  had  not  the  half- 
criticism  of  the  Benedictine,  much  worse  than  a  total  absence 
of  criticism,  altered  those  naive  legends  and  cut  away  from 
them,  under  the  pretext  of  good  sense  and  religious  reverence, 
that  which  to  us  gives  them  interest  and  charm. 

Ireland  above  all  would  offer  a  religious  physiognomy  quite 
peculiar  to  itself,  which  would  appear  singularly  original,  were 
history  in  a  position  to  reveal  it  in  its  entirety.  When  we  con- 
sider the  legions  of  Irish  saints  who  in  the  sixth,  seventh,  and 
eighth  centuries  inundated  the  Continent,  and  arrived  from 
their  isle  bearing  with  them  their  stubborn  spirr-t;,  their  attach- 
ment to  their  own  usages,  their  subtle  and  realistic  turn  of 
mind,  and  see  the  Scots  (such  was  the  name  given  to  the  Irish) 
doing  duty,  until  the  twelfth  century,  as  instructors  in  grammar 
and  literature  to  all  the  West,  we  cannot  doubt  that  Ireland,  in 
the  first  half  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was  the  scene  of  a  singular 
religious  movement.  Studious  philologists  and  daring  philoso- 
phers, the  Hibernian  monks  were  above  all  indefatigable  copy- 
ists; and  it  was  in  part  owing  to  them  that  the  work  of  the 
pen  became  a  holy  task.  Columba,  secretly  warned  that  his 
last  hour  is  at  hand,  finishes  the  page  of  the  psalter  which  he 
has  commenced,  writes  at  the  foot  that  he  bequeaths  the  con- 
tinuation to  his  successor,  and  then  goes  into  the  church  to  die. 
Nowhere  was  monastic  life  to  find  such  docile  subjects.    Credu- 


448  RENAN 

lous  as  a  child,  timid,  indolent,  inclined  to  submit  and  obey, 
the  Irishman  alone  was  capable  of  lending  himself  to  that  com- 
plete self-abdication  in  the  hands  of  the  abbot,  which  we  find 
so  deeply  marked  in  the  historical  and  legendary  memorials  of 
the  Irish  Church.  One  easily  recognizes  the  land  where,  in  our 
own  days,  the  priest,  without  provoking  the  slightest  scandal, 
can,  on  a  Sunday  before  quitting  the  altar,  give  the  orders  for 
his  dinner  in  a  very  audible  manner,  and  announce  the  farm 
where  he  intends  to  go  and  dine,  and  where  he  will  hear  his 
flock  in  confession.  In  the  presence  of  a  people  which  lived  by 
imagination  and  the  senses  alone,  the  Church  did  not  consider 
itself  under  the  necessity  of  dealing  severely  with  the  caprices 
of  religious  fantasy.  It  permitted  the  free  action  of  the  popular 
instinct;  and  from  this  freedom  emerged  what  is  perhaps  of 
all  cults  the  most  mythological  and  most  analogous  to  the  mys- 
teries of  antiquity,  presented  in  Christian  annals,  a  cult  attached 
to  certain  places,  and  almost  exclusively  consisting  in  certain 
acts  held  to  be  sacramental. 

Without  contradiction  the  legend  of  St.  Brandan  is  the  most 
singular  product  of  this  combination  of  Celtic  naturalism  with 
Christian  spiritualism.  The  taste  of  the  Hibernian  monks  for 
making  maritime  pilgrimages  through  the  archipelago  of  the 
Scottish  and  Irish  seas,  everywhere  dotted  with  monasteries,^* 
and  the  memory  of  yet  more  distant  voyages  in  Polar  seas,  fur- 
nished the  framework  of  this  curious  composition,  so  rich  in 
local  impressions.  From  Pliny  (IV.  xxx.  3)  we  learn  that,  even 
in  his  time,  the  Bretons  loved  to  venture  their  lives  upon  the 
high  seas,  in  search  of  unknown  isles.  M.  Letronne  has  proved 
that  in  795,  sixty-five  years  consequently  before  the  Danes,  Irish 
monks  landed  in  Iceland  and  established  themselves  on  the 
coast.  In  this  island  the  Danes  found  Irish  books  and  bells; 
and  the  names  of  certain  localities  still  bear  witness  to  the  so- 
journ of  those  monks,  who  were  known  by  the  name  of  Pap(B 
(fathers).  In  the  Faroe  Isles,  in  the  Orkneys,  and  the  Shet- 
lands,  indeed  in  all  parts  of  the  Northern  seas,  the  Scandinavians 
found  themselves  preceded  by  those  Papa;,  whose  habits  con- 

»*  The    Irish    saints    literally    covered  leRends    of    St.    Malo,    St.    David,    and 

the  Western  seas.     A  very  considerable  of  St.  Pol  of  Li^on  are  replete  with  sim- 

numher    of    the    saints    of    Brittany,    St.  ilar    stories    of    voyages    to    the    distant 

Tcncnan,   St.    Kenan,  for  example,  were  isles  of  the  West, 
emigrants    from    Ireland.    The    Breton 


THE    POETRY   OF   THE    CELTIC   RACES  449 

trasted  so  strangely  with  their  own.'*  Did  they  not  have  a 
ghmpse  too  of  that  great  land,  the  vague  memory  of  which 
seems  to  pursue  them,  and  which  Columbus  was  to  discover, 
following  the  traces  of  their  dreams?  It  is  only  known  that 
the  existence  of  an  island,  traversed  by  a  great  river  and  situ- 
ated to  the  west  of  Ireland,  was,  on  the  faith  of  the  Irish,  a 
dogma  for  mediaeval  geographers. 

The  story  went  that,  towards  the  middle  of  the  sixth  century^ 
a  monk  called  Barontus,  on  his  return  from  voyaging  upon  the 
sea,  came  and  craved  hospitality  at  the  monastery  of  Clonfert. 
Brandan  the  abbot  besought  him  to  give  pleasure  to  the  brothers 
by  narrating  the  marvels  of  God  that  he  had  seen  on  the  high 
seas.  Barontus  revealed  to  them  the  existence  of  an  island  sur- 
rounded by  fogs,  where  he  had  left  his  disciple  Mernoc;  it  is 
the  Land  of  Promise  that  God  keeps  for  his  saints.  Brandan 
with  seventeen  of  his  monks  desired  to  go  in  quest  of  this  mys- 
terious land.  They  set  forth  in  a  leather  boat,  bearing  with 
them  as  their  sole  provision  a  utensil  of  butter,  wherewith  to 
grease  the  hides  of  their  craft.  For  seven  years  they  lived  thus 
in  their  boat,  abandoning  to  God  sail  and  rudder,  and  only  stop- 
ping on  their  course  to  celebrate  the  feasts  of  Christmas  and 
Easter  on  the  back  of  the  king  of  fishes,  Jasconius.  Every  step 
of  this  monastic  Odyssey  is  a  miracle,  on  every  isle  is  a  mon- 
astery, where  the  wonders  of  a  fantastical  universe  respond  to 
the  extravagances  of  a  wholly  ideal  life.  Here  is  the  Isle  of 
Sheep,  where  these  animals  govern  themselves  according  to 
their  own  laws ;  elsewhere  the  Paradise  of  Birds,  where  the 
winged  race  lives  after  the  fashion  of  monks,  singing  matins 
and  lauds  at  the  canonical  hours.  Brandan  and  his  companions 
celebrate  mass  here  with  the  birds,  and  remain  with  them  for 
fifty  days,  nourishing  themselves  with  nothing  but  the  singing 
of  their  hosts.  Elsewhere  there  is  the  Isle  of  Delight,  the  ideal 
of  monastic  life  in  the  midst  of  the  seas.  Here  no  material  ne- 
cessity makes  itself  felt ;  the  lamps  light  of  themselves  for  the 
offices  of  religion,  and  never  burn  out,  for  they  shine  with  a 
spiritual  light.  An  absolute  stillness  reigns  in  the  island ;  every- 
one knows  precisely  the  hour  of  his  death ;  one  feels  neither 
cold,  nor  heat,  nor  sadness,  nor  sickness  of  body  or  soul.    All 

'•  On  this  point  see  the  careful  researches  of  Humboldt  in  his  "  History  of  the  Geogi 
Xapby  of  the  New  Continent,"  vol.  ii. 

T— Vol.   60 


4SO  RENAN 

this  has  endured  since  the  days  of  St.  Patrick,  who  so  ordained 
;  it.  The  Land  of  Promise  is  more  marvellous  still ;  there  an 
eternal  day  reigns ;  all  the  plants  have  flowers,  all  the  trees  bear 
fruits.  Some  privileged  men  alone  have  visited  it.  On  their 
return  a  perfume  is  perceived  to  come  from  them,  which  their 
garments  keep  for  forty  days. 

In  the  midst  of  these  dreams  there  appears  with  a  surprising 
fidelity  to  truth  the  feeling  for  the  picturesque  in  Polar  voyages 
■—the  transparency  of  the  sea,  the  aspect  of  bergs  and  islands  of 
ice  melting  in  the  sun,  the  volcanic  phenomena  of  Iceland,  the 
sporting  of  whales,  the  characteristic  appearance  of  the  Norwe- 
gian fiords,  the  sudden  fogs,  the  sea  calm  as  milk,  the  green 
isles  crowned  with  grass  which  grows  down  to  the  very  verge 
of  the  waves.  This  fantastical  nature  created  expressly  for  an- 
other humanity,  this  strange  topography  at  once  glowing  with 
fiction  and  speaking  of  truth,  make  the  poem  of  St.  Brandan 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  creations  of  the  human  mind, 
and  perhaps  the  completest  expression  of  the  Celtic  ideal.  All 
is  lovely,  pure,  and  innocent ;  never  has  a  gaze  so  benevolent 
and  so  gentle  been  cast  upon  the  earth;  there  is  not  a  single 
cruel  idea,  not  a  trace  of  frailty  or  repentance.  It  is  the  world 
seen  through  the  crystal  of  a  stainless  conscience,  one  might 
almost  say  a  human  nature,  as  Pelagius  wished  it,  that  has 
never  sinned.  The  very  animals  participate  in  this  universal 
mildness.  Evil  appears  under  the  form  of  monsters  wandering 
on  the  deep,  or  of  Cyclops  confined  in  volcanic  islands ;  but  God 
causes  them  to  destroy  one  another,  and  does  not  permit  them 
to  do  hurt  to  the  good. 

We  have  just  seen  how,  around  the  legend  of  a  monk,  the 
Irish  imagination  grouped  a  whole  cycle  of  physical  and  mari- 
time myths.  The  Purgatory  of  St.  Patrick  became  the  frame- 
work of  another  series  of  fables,  embodying  the  Celtic  ideas 
concerning  the  other  life  and  its  different  conditions.'*  Per- 
haps the  profoundest  instinct  of  the  Celtic  peoples  is  their  de- 
sire to  penetrate  the  unknown.  With  the  sea  before  them,  they 
wish  to  know  what  lies  beyond ;  they  dream  of  a  Promised 
Land.  Intheface  ofthe  unknown  that  lies  beyondthe  tomb,  they 
dream  of  that  great  journey  which  the  pen  of  Dante  has  cele- 

*•  See  Thomas   Wright's   cxrplleiit   dis-        don,   1844),  and  Caldcrotl's  "The  Well  oC 
sertation,  •'  St.  Patritlc's  Purgatory  "  (Lou-       St,  Patrick." 


THE   POETRY   OF  THE   CELTIC  RACES 


451 


brated.  The  legend  tells  how  while  St.  Patrick  was  preaching 
about  Paradise  and  Hell  to  the  Irish,  they  confessed  that  they 
would  feel  more  assured  of  the  reality  of  these  places  if  he 
would  allow  one  of  them  to  descend  there,  and  then  come  back 
with  information.  St.  Patrick  consented.  A  pit  was  dug,  by 
which  an  Irishman  set  out  upon  the  subterranean  journey. 
Others  wished  to  attempt  the  journey  after  him.  With  the  con- 
sent of  the  abbot  of  the  neighboring  monastery,  they  descended 
into  the  shaft,  they  passed  through  the  torments  of  Hell  and 
vPurgatory,  and  then  each  told  of  what  he  had  seen.  Some  did 
not  emerge  again ;  those  who  did  laughed  no  more,  and  were 
henceforth  unable  to  join  in  any  gayety.  Knight  Owen  made  a 
descent  in  1153,  and  gave  a  narrative  of  his  travels  which  had 
a  prodigious  success. 

Other  legends  related  that  when  St.  Patrick  drove  the  gob- 
lins out  of  Ireland  he  was  greatly  tormented  in  this  place  for 
forty  days  by  legions  of  black  birds.  The  Irish  betook  them- 
selves to  the  spot,  and  experienced  the  same  assaults  which 
gave  them  an  immunity  from  purgatory.  According  to  the 
narrative  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  isle  which  served  as  the 
theatre  of  this  strange  superstition  was  divided  into  two  parts. 
One  belonged  to  the  monks,  the  other  was  occupied  by  evil 
spirits,  who  celebrated  religious  rites  in  their  own  manner,  with 
an  infernal  uproar.  Some  people,  for  the  expiation  of  their 
sins,  voluntarily  exposed  themselves  to  the  fury  of  those  demons. 
There  were  nine  ditches  in  which  they  lay  for  a  night,  tormented 
in  a  thousand  different  ways.  To  make  the  descent  it  was  nec- 
essary to  obtain  the  permission  of  the  bishop.  His  duty  it  was 
to  dissuade  the  penitent  from  attempting  the  adventure,  and  to 
point  out  to  him  how  many  people  liad  gone  in  who  had  never 
come  out  again.  If  the  devotee  persisted,  he  was  ceremoniously 
conducted  to  the  shaft.  He  was  lowered  down  by  means  of  a 
rope,  with  a  loaf  and  a  vessel  of  water  to  strengthen  him  in  the 
combat  against  the  fiend  which  he  proposed  to  wage.  On  the 
following  morning  the  sacristan  offered  the  rope  anew  to  the 
sufferer.  If  he  mounted  to  the  surface  again,  they  brought  him 
back  to  the  church,  bearing  the  cross  and  chanting  psalms.  If 
he  were  not  to  be  found,  the  sacristan  closed  the  door  and  de- 
parted. In  more  modern  times  pilgrims  to  the  sacred  isles  spent 
nine  days  th»re.    They  passed  over  to  them  in  a  boat  hollowed 


452  RENAN 

out  of  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Once  a  day  they  drank  of  the  water 
of  the  lake;  processions  and  stations  were  performed  in  the 
beds  or  cells  of  the  saints.  Upon  the  ninth  day  the  penitents 
entered  into  the  shaft.  Sermons  were  preached  to  them  warn- 
ing them  of  the  danger  they  were  about  to  run,  and  they  were 
told  of  terrible  examples.  They  forgave  their  enemies  and  took 
farewell  of  one  another,  as  though  they  were  at  their  last  agony. 
According  to  contemporary  accounts,  the  shaft  was  a  low  and 
narrow  kiln,  into  which  nine  entered  at  a  time,  and  in  which  the 
penitents  passed  a  day  and  a  night,  huddled  and  tighty  pressed 
against  one  another.  Popular  belief  imagined  an  abyss  under- 
neath, to  swallow  up  the  unworthy  and  the  unbelieving.  On 
emerging  from  the  pit  they  went  and  bathed  in  the  lake^  and 
so  their  purgatory  was  accomplished.  It  would  appear  from  the 
accounts  of  eye-witnesses  that,  to  this  day,  things  happen  very 
nearly  after  the  sajne  fashion. 

The  immense  reputation  of  the  purgatory  of  St.  Patrick  filled 
the  whole  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Preachers  made  appeal  to  the 
public  notoriety  of  this  great  fact,  to  controvert  those  who  had 
their  doubts  regarding  purgatory.  In  the  year  1358  Edward 
III  gave  to  a  Hungarian  of  noble  birth,  who  had  come  from 
Hungary  expressly  to  visit  the  sacred  well,  letters  patent  attest- 
ing that  he  had  undergone  his  purgatory.  Narratives  of  those 
travels  beyond  the  tomb  became  a  very  fashionable  form  of 
literature;  and  it  is  important  for  us  to  remark  the  wholly 
mythological,  and  as  wholly  Celtic,  characteristics  dominant  in 
them.  It  is  in  fact  evident  that  we  are  dealing  with  a  mystery 
or  local  cult,  anterior  to  Christianity,  anrl  probably  based  upon 
the  physical  appearance  of  the  country.  The  idea  of  purgatory, 
in  its  final  and  concrete  form,  fared  specially  well  amongst  the 
Bretons  and  the  Irish.  Bede  is  one  of  the  first  to  speak  of  it 
in  a  descriptive  manner,  and  the  learned  Mr.  Wright  very  justly 
observes  that  nearly  all  the  descriptions  of  purgatory  come  from 
Irishmen,  or  from  Anglo-Saxons  who  have  resided  in  Ireland, 
such  as  St.  Fursey,  Tundale,  the  Northumbrian  Dryhthelm,  and 
Knight  Owen.  It  is  likewise  a  remarkable  thing  that  only  the 
Irish  were  able  to  behold  the  marvels  of  their  purgatory.  A 
canon  from  Hemstede  in  Holland,  who  descended  in  1494,  saw 
nothing  at  all.  Evidently  this  idea  of  travels  in  the  other  world 
and  its  infernal  categories,  as  the  Middle  Age«  accepted  it,  is 


THE   POETRY   OF   THE   CELTIC   RACES  453 

Celtic.  The  belief  in  the  three  circles  of  existence  is  again  to 
be  found  in  the  "  Triads,"  '^  under  an  aspect  which  does  not 
permit  one  to  see  any  Christian  interpolation. 

The  soul's  peregrinations  after  death  are  also  the  favorite 
theme  of  the  most  ancient  Armorican  poetry.  Among  the  feat- 
ures by  which  the  Celtic  races  most  impressed  the  Romans  were 
the  precision  of  their  ideas  upon  the  future  life,  their  inclina- 
tion to  suicide,  and  the  loans  and  contracts  which  they  signed 
with  the  other  world  in  view.  The  more  frivolous  peoples  of 
the  South  saw  with  awe  in  this  assurance  the  fact  of  a  mys- 
terious race,  having  an  understanding  of  the  future  and  the 
secret  of  death.  Through  the  whole  of  classical  antiquity  runs 
the  tradition  of  an  Isle  of  Shadows,  situated  on  the  confines  of 
Brittany,  and  of  a  folk  devoted  to  the  passage  of  souls,  which 
lives  upon  the  neighboring  coast.  In  the  night  they  hear  dead 
men  prowling  about  their  cabin,  and  knocking  at  the  door. 
Then  they  rise  up ;  their  craft  is  laden  with  invisible  beings ;  on 
their  return  it  is  lighter.  Several  of  these  features  reproduced 
by  Plutarch,  Claudian,  Procopius,  and  Tzetzes  would  incline 
one  to  believe  that  the  renown  of  the  Irish  myths  made  its  way 
into  classical  antiquity  about  the  first  or  second  century.  Plu- 
tarch, for  example,  relates,  concerning  the  Cronian  Sea,  fables 
identical  with  those  which  fill  the  legend  of  St.  Male.  Pro- 
copius, describing  the  sacred  island  of  Brittia,  which  consists 
of  two  parts  separated  by  the  sea,  one  delightful,  the  other  given 
over  to  evil  spirits,  seems  to  have  read  in  advance  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  purgatory  of  St.  Patrick,  which  Giraldus  Cambren- 
sis  was  to  give  seven  centuries  later.  It  cannot  be  doubted  for 
a  moment,  after  the  able  researches  of  ISIessrs.  Ozanam,  La- 
bitte,  and  Wright,  that  to  the  number  of  poetical  themes  which 
Europe  owes  to  the  genius  of  the  Celts,  is  to  be  added  the 
framework  of  the  Divine  Comedy. 

One  can  understand  how  greatly  this  invincible  attraction  to 
fables  must  have  discredited  the  Celtic  race  in  the  eyes  of  na- 
tionalities that  believed  themselves  to  be  more  serious.  It  is  in 
truth  a  strange  thing,  that  the  whole  of  the  mediaeval  epoch, 
whilst  submitting  to  the  influence  of  the  Celtic  imagination, 

'*  A  series  of  aphorisms  under  the  form  according  to  the  testimony  of  the  ancients, 

oftriplets,  which  give  us,  with  numerous  was  transmitted  by  means   of  mnemonic 

interpolations,  the  ancient  teaching  of  the  verses  in  the  schools  of  the  Druids. 
t>ards>  and  that  traditional  wisdom  wbicbt 


454  RENAN 

and  borrowing  from  Brittany  and  Ireland  at  least  half  of  its 
poetical  subjects,  believed  itself  obliged,  for  the  saving  of  its 
own  honor,  to  slight  and  satirize  the  people  to  which  it  owed 
them.  Even  Chretien  de  Troyes,  for  example,  who  passed  his 
life  in  exploiting  the  Breton  romances  for  his  own  purposes, 
originated  the  saying : 

**  Les  Gallois  sont  tons  par  nature 
Plus  sots  que  bites  de p&ture." 

Some  English  chronicler,  I  know  not  who,  imagined  he  was 
making  a  charming  play  upon  words  when  he  described  those 
beautiful  creations,  the  whole  world  of  which  deserved  to  live, 
as  "  the  childish  nonsense  with  which  those  brutes  of  Bretons 
amuse  themselves."  The  Bollandists  found  it  incumbent  to 
exclude  from  their  collection,  as  apocryphal  extravagances, 
those  admirable  religious  legends,  with  which  no  church  has 
anything  to  compare.  The  decided  leaning  of  the  Celtic  race 
towards  the  ideal,  its  sadness,  its  fidelity,  its  good  faith,  caused 
it  to  be  regarded  by  its  neighbors  as  dull,  foolish,  and  super- 
stitious. They  could  not  understand  its  delicacy  and  refined 
manner  of  feeling.  They  mistook  for  awkwardness  the  em- 
barrassment experienced  by  sincere  and  open  natures  in  the 
presence  of  more  artificial  natures.  The  contrast  between 
French  frivolity  and  Breton  stubbornness  above  all  led,  after 
the  fourteenth  century,  to  most  deplorable  conflicts,  whence  the 
Bretons  ever  emerged  with  a  reputation  for  wrong-headedness. 

It  was  still  worse,  when  the  nation  that  most  prides  itself  on 
its  practical  good  sense  found  confronting  it  the  people  that,  to 
its  own  misfortune,  is  least  provided  with  that  gift.  Poor  Ire- 
land, with  her  ancient  mythology,  with  her  purgatory  of  St. 
Patrick,  and  her  fantastic  travels  of  St.  Brandan,  was  not  des- 
tined to  find  grace  in  the  eyes  of  English  puritanism.  One 
ought  to  observe  the  disdain  of  English  critics  for  these  fables, 
and  their  superb  pity  for  the  Church  which  dallies  with  pagan- 
ism, so  far  as  to  keep  up  usages  which  are  notoriously  derived 
from  it.  Assuredly  we  have  here  a  praiseworthy  zeal,  arising 
from  natural  goodness ;  and  yet,  even  if  these  flights  of  imag- 
ination did  no  more  than  render  a  little  more  supportable  many 
suff^crings  which  are  said  to  have  no  remedy,  that  after  all  would 
be  something.     Who  shall  dare  to  say  where,  here  on  earth,  is 


THE  POETRY   OF   THE  CELTIC   RACES  455 

the  boundary  between  reason  and  dreaming?  Which  is  worth 
more,  the  imaginative  instinct  of  man,  or  the  narrow  orthodoxy 
that  pretends  to  remain  rational,  when  speaking  of  things  di- 
vine? For  my  own  part,  I  prefer  the  frank  mythology,  with 
all  its  vagaries,  to  a  theology  so  paltry,  so  vulgar,  and  so  color- 
less, that  it  would  be  wronging  God  to  believe  that,  after  hav- 
ing made  the  visible  world  so  beautiful  he  should  have  made 
the  invisible  world  so  prosaically  reasonable. 

In  presence  of  the  ever-encroaching  progress  of  a  civilization 
which  is  of  no  country,  and  can  receive  no  name,  other  than  that 
of  modern  or  European,  it  would  be  puerile  to  hope  that  the 
Celtic  race  is  in  the  future  to  succeed  in  obtaining  isolated  ex- 
pression of  its  originality.  And  yet  we  are  far  from  believing 
that  this  race  has  said  its  last  word.  After  having  put  in  prac- 
tice all  chivalries,  devout  and  worldly,  gone  with  Peredur  in 
quest  of  the  Holy  Grail  and  fair  ladies,  and  dreamed  with  St. 
Brandan  of  mystical  Atlantides,  who  knows  what  it  would  pro- 
duce in  the  domain  of  intellect,  if  it  hardened  itself  to  an 
entrance  into  the  world,  and  subjected  its  rich  and  profound 
nature  to  the  conditions  of  modern  thought?  It  appears  to  me 
that  there  would  result  from  this  combination,  productions  of 
high  originality,  a  subtle  and  discreet  manner  of  taking  life,  a 
singular  union  of  strength  and  weakness,  of  rude  simplicity 
and  mildness.  Few  races  have  had  so  complete  a  poetic  child- 
hood as  the  Celtic ;  mythology,  lyric  poetry,  epic,  romantic  im- 
agination, religious  enthusiasm — none  of  these  failed  them; 
why  should  reflection  fail  them?  Germany,  which  commenced 
with  science  and  criticism,  has  come  to  poetry;  why  should  not 
the  Celtic  races,  which  began  with  poetry,  linish  with  criticism  ? 
There  is  not  so  great  a  distance  from  one  to  the  other  as  is  sup- 
posed ;  the  poetical  races  are  the  philosophic  races,  and  at  bot- 
tom philosophy  is  only  a  manner  of  poetry.  When  one  con- 
siders how  Germany,  less  than  a  century  ago,  had  her  genius 
revealed  to  her,  how  a  multitude  of  national  individualities,  to 
all  appearance  effaced,  have  suddenly  risen  again  in  our  own 
days,  more  instinct  with  life  than  ever,  one  feels  persuaded  that 
it  is  a  rash  thing  to  lay  down  any  law  on  the  intermittence  and 
awakening  of  nations ;  and  that  modern  civilization,  which  ap- 
peared to  be  made  to  absorb  them,  may  perhaps  be  nothing 
more  than  their  united  fruition. 


THE    PLURALITY    OF     INHABITED 
WORLDS 


BY 


CAMILLE     FLAMMARION 


CAMILLE  FLAMMARION 

Camille  Flammarion  was  born  at  Montigny-le-Roi  in  1842.  He  re- 
ceived his  early  education  at  the  pubUc  schools  of  Langres,  a  neigh- 
boring town,  and  at  Paris.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  pecuniary  difficulties 
in  which  his  family  became  involved  necessitated  his  looking  for  a 
means  of  livelihood,  and  he  was  apprenticed  to  an  engraver,  but  in 
spite  of  all  obstacles  he  continued  his  studies,  and  in  1858  entered  the 
Observatory  at  Paris  as  a  student  of  astronomy.  Here  he  remained 
four  years,  and  before  leaving  Paris  published  his  first  book,  "  The 
Plurality  of  Inhabited  Worlds,"  a  work  that  achieved  instant  success 
and  gave  its  young  author  at  once  a  brilliant  reputation.  It  has  been 
translated  into  many  languages,  and  still  remains  one  of  the  most 
widely  read  and  greatly  admired  of  all  his  works.  At  this  time,  when 
only  twenty  years  old,  Flammarion  determined  to  devote  himself  to 
the  work  of  popularizing  the  science  of  astronomy.  By  the  time  he 
was  twenty-four,  three  notable  books  had  followed  one  another  in 
quick  succession — "  Les  mondes  imaginaires  et  les  mondes  reels,"  "  Les 
merveilles  celestes,"  and  "  Dieu  dans  la  nature." 

Flammarion  meantime  had  been  one  of  the  most  active  contributors 
to  "  Cosmos,"  and  in  1866  he  took  charge  of  the  scientific  department 
of  the  "  Siecle."  The  following  year  he  began  a  series  of  popular 
lectures  on  astronomy  which  enhanced  his  already  well  established 
reputation.  In  1868  he  was  nominated  president  of  the  scientific  sec- 
tion of  the  Exposition  at  Havre,  but  with  this  exception  he  resigned 
from  all  his  of^cial  duties  and  devoted  himself  henceforth  entirely  to 
his  life-work.  He  was  now  in  possession  of  a  moderate  income  from 
his  writings  and  lectures.  This  enabled  him  to  establish  a  small  ob- 
servatory of  his  own,  which  was  afterward  greatly  enlarged  by  gifts 
from  some  of  his  admirers. 

In  1882  Flammarion  founded  the  monthly  "  Journal  d' Astronomic," 
of  which  he  is  still  the  editor,  and  in  1887  he  founded  the  Astronomical 
Society  of  France,  becoming  its  first  president.  A  complete  list  of 
his  later  works  would  fill  several  pages,  comprising,  as  they  do,  not 
only  printed  books,  pamphlets,  and  monographs,  but  a  great  number 
of  articles  in  magazines  and  even  in  weekly  and  daily  newspapers, 
many  of  which  are  of  great  interest  and  importance.  In  1893  Flam- 
marion published  a  work  on  the  planet  Mars  and  its  probable  inhab- 
itants, which  gave  rise  to  an  extensive  and  animated  popular  discussion, 
and  greatly  increased  the  popular  interest  in  astronomy. 

Flammarion's  style  is  light  and  graceful,  vivid  and  fluent.  As  a 
master  of  the  art  of  popular  exposition  of  subjects  naturally  abstruse 
and  difficult  he  has  few  equals  in  literature.  Indeed,  it  is  precisely 
because  his  work  is  so  notably  superior  to  that  of  compilers  of  text- 
books and  ordinary  writers  on  scientific  subjects  that  his  name  de- 
serves a  place  among  the  masters  of  prose.  He  is  by  no  means  merely 
an  interpreter  of  the  discoveries  of  others,  but  an  original  investigator 
of  no  slight  merit. 


4S8 


THE   PLURALITY  OF  INHABITED  WORLDS 

THE  astronomical  truths  which  have  been  the  subject  of 
our  conversation  doubtless  prove  the  high  character 
of  the  human  mind  which  aspires  to  them,  and  which, 
scrutinizing  the  organized  laws  of  the  universe,  has  been  able 
to  determine  the  causes  which  regulate  the  harmony  of  the 
cosmos  and  secure  its  perpetuity.  No  doubt,  it  is  good  for 
man,  this  spiritual  atom  inhabiting  a  material  atom,  to  have 
penetrated  the  mysteries  of  creation,  and  to  have  been  exalted 
to  the  knowledge  of  these  sublime  heights,  the  contemplation 
of  which  alone  overwhelms  and  annihilates  him.  But  if  the 
universe  remains  to  man  only  a  great  material  mechanism, 
moved  by  physical  forces,  if  nature  is  nothing  in  his  eyes  but 
a  gigantic  laboratory,  where  the  elements  are  mingled  blindly 
under  the  most  various  and  casual  forms;  in  a  word,  if  this 
admirable  and  magnificent  science  of  the  heavens  confines  the 
efiforts  of  the  human  mind  eternally  to  the  geometry  of  the 
heavenly  bodies,  the  science  would  never  attain  its  real  end, 
and  it  would  stop  at  the  moment  of  reaping  the  fruit  of  its 
immense  labors.  It  would  remain  supremely  incomplete  if 
the  universe  were  never  anything  to  it  but  an  assemblage  of 
inert  bodies  floating  in  space  under  the  action  of  material 
forces. 

The  philosopher  must  go  further.  He  must  not  confine 
himself  to  seeing  under  a  more  or  less  distinct  form  the  great 
body  of  nature.  But,  stretching  forth  the  hand,  he  must  feel 
under  the  material  envelope  the  life  which  circulates  in  great 
waves.  God's  empire  is  not  the  empire  of  death ;  it  is  the  em- 
pire of  life. 

We  live  on  a  world  which  is  no  exception  among  the  heaven- 
ly bodies,  and  which  has  not  received  the  least  privilege.  It 
is  the  third  of  the  planets  which  revolve  round  the  sun  and  one 
of  the  smallest  among  them.    Without  going  beyond  our  system, 

459 


46o  FLAMMARION 

Other  planets  are  much  more  important  than  it;  Jupiter,  for 
instance,  is  1,414  times  greater,  and  Saturn  734  times.  While 
it  appears  to  us  the  most  important  of  the  universe,  it  is  in 
reality  lost  in  the  immensity  of  the  worlds  which  people  the 
heavens,  and  the  whole  creation  does  not  guess  at  its  existence. 

Of  the  planets  of  our  own  system  there  are  only  four,  the 
inhabitants  of  which  can  know  that  the  earth  exists;  these 
are.  Mercury,  Venus,  Mars,  and  Jupiter ;  and  even  to  this  last 
one  it  is  most  of  the  time  invisible  in  the  solar  aureola.  Now, 
while  the  Earth  is  thus  lost  amid  worlds  more  important  than 
itself,  the  other  worlds  are  in  the  same  conditions  of  habita- 
bility  as  those  that  we  observe  on  the  Earth.  On  these  planets, 
as  on  our  own,  the  generous  rays  of  the  sun  pour  forth  heat 
and  light ;  on  them,  as  here,  years,  months,  and  days  succeed 
each  other,  drawing  with  them  the  seasons  which,  from  time 
to  time,  support  the  conditions  of  existence ;  on  them,  as  here, 
a  transparent  atmosphere  envelops  the  inhabited  surface  with 
a  protecting  climate,  gives  rise  to  meteoric  movements,  and 
develops  those  ravishing  beauties  which  celebrate  sunrise  and 
sunset.  On  them  as  here,  vaporous  clouds  rise  from  the  ocean 
with  the  deep  waves,  and  spreading  themselves  under  the 
heaven,  carry  dew  to  the  parched-up  regions.  This  great 
movement  of  life  which  circulates  over  the  Earth  is  not  con- 
fined to  this  little  planet ;  the  same  causes  develop  elsewhere 
the  same  effects,  and  on  many  among  these  strange  worlds, 
far  from  noticing  the  absence  of  the  riches  with  which  the 
Earth  is  endowed,  an  abundance  of  wealth  of  which  our  abode 
only  possesses  the  first-fruits  is  observed.  By  the  side  of  these 
bodies,  the  Earth  is  essentially  an  inferior  world  in  many  re- 
pects;  from  the  unsatisfactory  conditions  of  geological  sta- 
bility of  which  the  terrestrial  spheroid  reminds  us,  its  surface 
being  only  a  thin  pellicle,  to  the  fatal  laws  which  govern  life 
on  this  Earth  where  death  reigns  supreme. 

If,  on  the  one  hand,  the  other  worlds  have  conditions  of 
habitability  quite  as  powerful,  if  not  more  so,  as  the  terrestrial 
conditions,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Earth,  considered  in  itself, 
appears  to  us  like  an  overflowing  cup  whence  life  issues  on  all 
sides.  It  seems  that  to  create  is  so  necessary  to  the  order  of 
nature  that  the  smallest  piece  of  matter  of  suitable  properties 
does  not  exist  without  serving  as  an  abode  of  living  beings. 


THE   PLURALITY   OF    INHABITED   WORLDS         461 

While  the  telescope  discovered  in  the  heavens  fresh  fields  for 
creation,  the  microscope  showed  us  below  the  range  of  visibility 
the  field  of  invisible  life,  and  that,  not  content  with  spreading 
life  everywhere  where  there  is  matter  to  receive  it,  from  the 
primitive  period  when  this  globe  had  scarcely  left  its  fiery 
cradle,  to  our  days,  nature  still  heaps  up  existence,  to  the  detri- 
ment of  existence  itself. 

Leaves  of  plants  are  fields  of  microscopical  flocks  of  which 
certain  species,  although  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  are  real 
elephants  beside  other  beings,  whose  extreme  diminutiveness 
has  not  prevented  an  admirable  system  of  organization  for  the 
carrying  on  of  their  ephemeral  life.  Animals  themselves  serve 
as  an  abode  to  races  of  parasites  which,  in  their  turn,  are  them- 
selves the  abode  of  parasites  still  smaller.  Under  another 
aspect  the  infinity  of  life  presents  a  correlative  character  in  its 
diversity.  Its  force  is  so  powerful  that  no  element  appears 
capable  of  struggling  advantageously  against  it,  and  tending 
to  spread  itself  in  every  place,  nothing  can  stop  its  action.  From 
the  high  regions  of  the  air,  where  the  winds  carry  the  germs,  to 
the  oceanic  depths,  where  they  undergo  a  pressure  equal  to 
several  hundred  atmospheres,  and  v;here  the  most  complete 
night  extends  its  eternal  sovereignty ;  from  the  burning  climate 
of  the  equator  and  the  hot  sources  of  volcanic  regions  to  the 
icy  regions  and  the  solid  seas  of  the  polar  circle,  life  extends  its 
empire  like  an  immense  network,  surrounding  the  whole  Earth, 
amusing  itself  with  all  obstacles,  and  passing  over  all  abysses, 
so  that  there  is  not  in  the  world  any  district  which  can  pretend 
to  be  beyond  its  absolute  sovereignty. 

It  is  by  studies  founded  on  this  double  consideration,  the  in- 
significance of  the  Earth  in  creation,  and  the  abundance  of  life 
on  its  surface,  that  we  are  able  to  raise  ourselves  to  the  first 
real  principles  on  which  the  demonstration  of  the  universal 
habitation  of  the  heavenly  bodies  must  be  fixed.  For  a  long 
time  man  could  confine  himself  to  the  study  of  phenomena ;  for 
a  long  time  he  must  still  keep  to  the  direct  and  simple  observa- 
tion of  physical  appearances,  in  order  that  science  may  acquire 
the  precision  which  constitutes  its  value.  But  now  this  entrance 
of  truth  can  be  passed,  and  thought,  outstripping  matter,  may 
rise  to  the  idea  of  intellectual  things.  In  the  bosom  of  these 
'distant  worlds  it  sees  universal  life  plunging  its  immense  roots ; 


402  FLAMMARION 

and  at  their  surface  it  sees  this  life  spreading  itself,  and  intelli- 
gence establishing  its  throne. 

Founded  on  the  astronomical  basis,  the  only  possible  founda- 
tion, researches  made  in  the  domain  of  the  physical  sciences, 
from  celestial  mechanism  to  biology,  and  in  that  of  the  phil- 
osophical science  from  ontology  to  morals,  the  old  idea  of  the 
plurality  of  worlds  has  risen  to  the  rank  of  a  doctrine.  The 
evidence  of  this  truth  has  been  revealed  to  the  eyes  of  all  those 
who  are  impartially  and  entirely  given  up  to  the  study  of  nature. 
It  does  not  come  within  the  bounds  of  this  discourse  to  enter 
fully  on  this  philosophical  aspect  of  creation ;  but  if  I  consider 
it  in  itself  as  the  logical  conclusion  of  astronomical  studies,  I 
owe  it  to  my  readers  at  least  to  offer  them  as  a  modest  conclu- 
sion of  the  narratives  which  they  have  followed  up  to  this  time, 
the  principal  results  to  which  we  have  arrived  on  this  great  and 
beautiful  question  of  the  existence  of  life  on  the  surface  of  the 
heavenly  bodies. 

In  the  first  place,  the  following  is  the  first  consideration 
established  on  the  astronomical  character  of  the  world  and  its 
history :  If  the  reader  follow  the  philosophical  march  of  mod- 
ern astronomy,  he  will  discover  that  from  the  moment  when 
the  movement  of  the  Earth  and  the  volume  of  the  sun  were 
known  astronomers  and  philosophers  found  it  strange  that  a 
body  so  magnificent  was  solely  employed  to  light  up  and  warm 
a  little  imperceptible  world,  arranged  in  company  with  many 
others  under  a  supreme  rule.  The  absurdity  of  such  an  opinion 
was  still  more  striking,  when  they  found  that  Venus  was  a 
planet  of  the  same  dimensions  as  the  Earth,  with  mountains  and 
plains,  seasons  and  years,  days  and  nights,  similar  to  our  own ; 
the  analogy  was  extended  to  the  conclusion  that  these  two 
worlds,  similar  in  their  formation,  were  also  similar  in  their 
role  in  the  universe;  if  Venus  was  without  population,  the 
Earth  ought  to  be  equally  so ;  and  conversely,  if  the  Earth  was 
peopled  Venus  must  be  so  also.  But  afterward,  when  the 
gigantic  worlds  of  Jupiter  and  Saturn  were  observed,  sur- 
rounded with  their  splendid  retinues,  they  were  compelled  to 
refuse  living  beings  to  the  preceding  little  planets,  if  they  did 
not  equally  endow  these,  and  moreover  give  to  Jupiter  and 
Saturn  men  much  superior  to  those  of  Venus  and  the  Earth. 
And  indeed,  is  it  not  evident  tliat  the  absurdity  of  the  im- 


THE   PLURALITY   OF   INHABITED   WORLDS  4O3 

movability  of  the  Earth  has  been  perpetuated  a  thousand  times 
more  extravagantly  in  this  ill-conceived  final  causation,  the  ob- 
ject of  which  is  to  place  our  globe  in  the  first  rank  of  celestial 
bodies?  Is  it  not  evident  that  this  world  has  been  thrown 
without  any  distinction  into  the  planetary  cluster,  and  that  it  is 
not  better  adapted  than  the  others  to  be  the  exclusive  seat  of 
life  and  intelligence?  How  little  founded  is  the  sentiment 
which  animates  us  when  we  fancy  that  the  universe  is  created 
for  us,  poor  beings  lost  on  a  world,  and  that  if  we  should  disap- 
pear from  the  scene,  this  vast  universe  would  be  marred,  like 
an  assemblage  of  inert  bodies,  and  deprived  of  light!  If  on 
the  morrow  not  one  of  us  was  to  awake,  and  if  the  night  which, 
in  each  diurnal  period  enwraps  the  world,  forever  sealed  the 
closed  eyelids  of  all  living  beings,  is  it  to  be  believed  that  hence- 
forth the  sun  would  no  longer  pour  out  its  light  and  heat,  and 
that  the  powers  of  nature  would  cease  their  eternal  movements  ? 
No ;  these  distant  worlds  that  we  have  just  reviewed  would 
continue  the  cycle  of  their  existence,  rocked  on  the  permanent 
forces  of  gravitation,  and  bathed  in  the  luminous  aureola  that 
the  orb  of  day  produces  round  its  brilliant  focus.  The  Earth 
that  we  inhabit  is  only  one  of  the  smallest  bodies  grouped  round 
this  focus,  and  its  degree  of  habitation  has  nothing  which  dis- 
tinguishes it  amid  its  companions.  For  an  instant  place  your- 
self at  a  distance  in  space  whence  you  can  embrace  the  whole 
solar  system,  and  suppose  that  the  planet  in  w^hich  you  saw 
light  is  unknown  to  you.  For  to  give  yourself  freely  to  the 
present  study  you  must  no  longer  consider  the  Earth  as  your 
country,  or  prefer  it  to  other  abodes ;  and  then  contemplate 
without  pretension  and  with  an  ultra-terrestrial  eye  the  plane- 
tary worlds  which  circulate  round  the  focus  of  our  life!  If 
you  suspect  the  phenomena  of  existence,  if  you  imagine  that 
certain  planets  are  inhabited,  if  you  are  taught  that  life  has 
chosen  certain  worlds  in  which  to  spread  the  germs  of  its  pro- 
ductions, do  you  intend  to  people  this  small  globe  of  the  Earth, 
before  having  established  in  superior  worlds  the  wonders  of 
living  creation  ?  Or  if  you  have  the  intention  of  settling  your- 
self on  a  body  whence  you  can  embrace  the  splendor  of  the 
heavens,  and  on  which  you  can  enjoy  the  benefits  of  a  rich  and 
fertile  nature,  shall  you  choose  as  an  abode  this  mean  Earth 
which  is  eclipsed  by  so  many  resplendent  spheres?    In  reply. 


464  FLAMMARION 

reader,  and  it  is  the  least  strong  and  most  rigorous  conclusion 
that  we  can  draw  from  the  preceding  considerations,  let  us  agree 
that  "  the  Earth  has  no  marked  preeminence  in  the  solar  system 
to  entitle  it  to  be  the  only  inhabited  world,  and  that,  astronomi- 
cally speaking,  the  other  planets  are  arranged  as  well  as  it  is  as 
abodes  of  life." 

A  second  consideration,  founded  on  the  varieties  of  living 
beings  on  the  surface  of  the  terrestrial  globe,  on  the  infinite 
power  of  nature,  that  no  obstacle  has  ever  stopped,  and  on  the 
eloquent  spectacle  of  the  infinity  of  life  itself  in  the  terrestrial 
world,  conducts  the  argument  into  a  new  order  of  ideas :  "  Nat- 
ure knows  the  secret  of  all  things,  puts  into  action  the  most 
feeble  as  well  as  the  most  powerful  forces,  renders  all  its  crea- 
tions answerable,  and  constitutes  beings  according  to  the  worlds 
and  ages,  without  the  one  or  the  other  being  able  to  place  any 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  manifestation  of  its  power.  Hence 
it  follows  that  the  habitability  and  habitation  of  the  planets  are 
a  necessary  complement  to  their  existence,  and  that  of  all  the 
conditions  enumerated,  not  one  can  stop  the  manifestation  of 
life  on  each  of  these  worlds.  But  let  us  add  another  observation 
which  will  complete  the  preceding;  let  us  think  for  an  instant 
of  our  forced  ignorance  in  this  little  isle  of  the  great  archipelago 
where  destiny  has  bound  us,  and  of  the  difficulty  we  experience 
in  searching  into  the  secrets  and  power  of  nature.  Let  us  prove 
that,  on  the  one  hand,  we  do  not  know  all  the  causes  which  have 
been  able  to  influence,  and  which  still  influence,  the  manifesta- 
tion of  life,  its  support  and  propagation  on  the  surface  of  the 
Earth ;  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  we  are  still  far  from 
knowing  all  the  principles  of  existence  which  propagate  in  other 
worlds  very  dissimilar  creations.  Scarcely  have  we  penetrated 
those  which  regulate  the  daily  functions  of  life ;  scarcely  have 
we  been  able  to  study  the  physical  properties  of  the  media,  the 
action  of  light  and  electricity,  the  effects  of  heat  and  magnetism. 
There  exist  others  which  go  on  constantly  under  our  eyes,  and 
which  have  not  yet  been  studied  nor  even  discovered.  How 
vain  then  would  it  be  to  wish  to  oppose  to  the  possibility  of 
planetary  existences  the  superficial  and  narrow  principles  of 
what  we  call  our  sciences?  What  cause  would  be  able  to  strug- 
gle with  advantage  against  the  effective  power  of  nature,  and 
to  place  obstacles  to  the  existence  of  beings  on  all  these  magnift- 


THE    PLURALITY   OF    INHABITED   WORLDS         4^5 

cent  globes  which  revolve  round  the  sun !  What  extravagance 
to  regard  the  little  world  where  we  first  saw  light  as  the  only 
temple,  or  as  the  model  of  nature !  " 

Impressed  with  the  value  of  the  providential  design  of  crea- 
tion, these  considerations  become  more  imperious  still.  "  That 
our  planet  was  made  to  be  lived  in,  is  incontestable,  not  only 
because  the  beings  which  people  it  are  here  under  our  eyes,  but 
again  because  the  connection  which  exists  between  these  beings 
and  the  regions  in  which  they  live  brings  the  inevitable  conclu- 
sion that  the  idea  of  habitation  is  immediately  connected  with 
the  idea  of  habitability.  Now  this  fact  is  an  argument  in  our 
favor;  for,  unless  we  consider  the  creative  power  as  illogical, 
or  as  inconsistent  with  its  real  manner  of  acting,  it  must  be  un- 
derstood that  the  habitability  of  the  planets  imperiously  demands 
their  habitation.  To  what  end  have  they  received  years,  sea- 
sons, months,  days;  and  why  does  not  life  come  forth  on  the 
surface  of  these  worlds  which  enjoy,  like  ours,  the  benefits  of 
nature,  and  which  receive,  like  ours,  the  rays  of  the  same  sun? 
Why  these  snows  of  Mars,  which  melt  each  spring,  and  descend 
to  water  its  continents?  Why  these  clouds  of  Jupiter,  which 
spread  shade  and  freshness  over  its  immense  plains?  Why 
this  atmosphere  of  Venus,  which  bathes  its  valleys  and  moun- 
tains? O  splendid  worlds,  which  float  afar  from  us  in  the 
heavens !  Would  it  be  possible  that  cold  sterility  was  ever  the 
immutable  sovereign  of  yonder  desolate  regions?  Would  it 
be  possible  that  this  magnificence,  which  seems  to  be  your  ap- 
panage, was  given  to  solitary  and  bare  worlds,  where  the  lonely 
rocks  eternally  regard  each  other  in  sullen  silence?  Fearful 
spectacle  in  its  immense  immutability ;  and  more  incomprehensi- 
ble than  if  Death  had  passed  over  the  Earth  in  fury,  and  with 
a  single  stroke  mowed  down  the  living  population  which  en- 
lightens its  surface,  thus  enveloping  in  one  ruin  all  the  children 
of  life,  and  leaving  it  to  roll  in  space  like  a  corpse  in  an  eternal 
tomb ! " 

Thus  it  is  that,  under  whatever  aspect  we  regard  creation, 
the  doctrine  of  the  plurality  of  inhabited  worlds  is  formed  and 
presented  as  the  only  explanation  of  the  final  end — as  the  justi- 
fication of  the  existence  of  material  forms — as  the  crowning  of 
astronomical  truths.  The  summary  conclusions  which  we  have 
just  quoted  are  established,  logically  and  without  difficulty,  by 


466  FLAMMARION 

observed  facts;  and  when,  having  contemplated  the  universe 
under  its  different  aspects,  the  mind  is  astonished  at  not  having 
sooner  conceived  this  striking  truth,  it  feels  within  itself  that 
the  demonstration  of  such  evidence  is  no  longer  necessary,  and 
that  it  ought  to  accept  it,  even  with  no  other  reasons  in  its  favor 
than  the  condition  of  the  terrestrial  atom  compared  with  the  rest 
of  the  immense  universe.  Humbled  by  this  spectacle,  one  can 
but  proclaim  the  luminous  truth  in  a  transport,  disdaining  all 
researches. 

"  Ah !  if  our  sight  was  piercing  enough  to  discover,  where 
we  only  see  brilliant  points  on  the  black  background  of  the  sky, 
resplendent  suns  which  revolve  in  the  expanse,  and  the  inhabited 
worlds  which  follow  them  in  their  path,  if  it  were  given  to  us 
to  embrace  in  a  general  coup  d'oeil  these  myriads  of  fire-based 
systems ;  and  if,  advancing  with  the  velocity  of  light,  we  could 
traverse  from  century  to  century,  this  unlimited  number  of  suns 
and  spheres,  without  ever  meeting  any  limit  to  this  prodigious 
immensity  where  God  brings  forth  worlds  and  beings :  looking 
behind,  but  no  longer  knowing  in  what  part  of  the  infinite  to 
find  this  grain  of  dust  called  the  Earth,  we  should  stop  fasci- 
nated and  confounded  by  such  a  spectacle,  and  uniting  our  voice 
to  the  concert  of  universal  nature  we  should  say  from  the  depths 
of  our  soul :  Almighty  God !  how  senseless  we  were  to  believe 
that  there  was  nothing  beyond  the  Earth,  and  that  our  abode 
alone  possessed  the  privilege  of  reflecting  Thy  greatness  and 
power  1 " 


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For  111  I,-n 
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